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WANOLASSET 


THE-LirTLE-ONE- WHO-LA UGHS 










t 



INDIANS ! 









WANOLASSET 


THE-LITTLE-ONE-WHO-LAUGHS 


BY 

A. G. PLYMPTON 

AUTHOR OF “dear DAUGHTER DOROTHY,’’ “BETTY, A BUTTERFLY,” 
“A BUD OF PROMISE,” “ ROBIN’S RECRUIT,” ETC. 



1897 


1 




Copyright, 1897, 

By a. G. Plympton. 


(JEnibfrsitg ^9rcss : 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Boy Enoch i 

11 . A Little Puritan’s Birthday 17 

II L The Flowered Silk 37 

IV. In which some Facts of History are briefly 

TOLD 45 

V. Awashamog 50 

VI. Forbidden Finery 57 

VII. An Uneasy Conscience 70 

VIII. The Attack 80 

IX. In the Wilderness 86 

X. Balked by the Enemy 106 

XL A Distracted Mind ^ ... 112 

XII. A Bold Design t ... 120 

XIII. By LTis own Wit ' . . . 136 


VI 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XIV. Her Little Master 143 

XV. On the March 150 

XVI. In Philip’s Tent 155 

XVII. Flight 160 

XVIII. In the White People’s Country .... 174 

XIX. A Letter from Ralph Whitehill to Mis- 
tress Marsden 185 

XX. Conclusion 194 


WANOLASSET. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE BOY ENOCH. 

O NE spring day in the early history of Med- 
field some children were playing by the 
brook that sings so blithely on its way through 
the middle of the town. Suddenly a little urchin 
shot out from the group, which instantly gave 
chase, and the whole rabble, shrieking like sava- 
ges, came pell-mell around the meeting-house 
and into the main street of the settlement. 

To gain a fair idea of what a Puritan village of 
those early colonial days was like, one can do no 
better than to take a look at Medfield, as, in its 
conscientious thrift and sober decorum, it lay in 
the smile of that afternoon sunshine. 

I 


2 


WANOLASSET. 


The main street of the village ran east and 
west, and the houses were built only upon the 
north side of it, so that at noon the sun shone 
straight in the doorway of each dwelling, — a 
convenient expedient for reckoning time in the 
days when clocks were a luxury, and there were 
not perhaps a dozen watches in all Boston. For 
the most part these houses were plain wooden 
structures of two stories in front, with a roof 
which sloped back to a lean-to, but here and 
there stood a rude cabin with thatched roof, the 
home of some early settler who had not yet found 
time or means to build a more substantial dwell- 
ing. Another street crossed the main one at 
right angles, and here, at the four corners, on a 
rise in the ground, stood the church or meeting- 
house, before which, it being a lecture day, a man 
was vigorously beating the drum to summon the 
people to worship. To complete the picture, a 
knot of men in the sombre garb of the Puritans 
was making its way to the church, which sight 
instantly checked the noisy spirits of the children. 


THE BOY ENOCH. 


3 


The foremost two of these men were the pastor 
of the church, the godly and gracious Mr. Wilson, 
as he has been called, and Goodman Whittaker, 
one of the seven selectmen who administered the 
affairs of the town. Whittaker was a typical 
Puritan, with solemn mien and of a rather stern 
humor. As he lay his hand on the shoulder of 
the nearest lad, he said frowning, — 

“ How now, boy ? What means this hubbub ? 
One would think the howling savages from the 
wilderness were upon us.” 

The boy thus addressed was not over eight 
years of age, and of a different type from the fair 
and more clumsily built children around him. 
He had, in truth, a foreign air that would not 
pass unchallenged in any Puritan colony, notwith- 
standing he was called by the orthodox name 
of Enoch Marsden, and had been brought to 
the country by as grim and thoroughgoing a 
Puritan as ever hacked down the idols of the 
unregenerate. 

The boy was slender and sinuous, fleet of foot. 


4 


WANOLASSET. 


as the distance he had managed to keep between 
himself and his pursuers well proved, and his 
small face upraised to meet the frown of the 
wrathful selectman was of an oriental cast and 
wondrously rich and gentle. As he drew his 
hand from the breast of his doublet, one saw that 
a small green snake was coiled around his wrist. 
The snake’s head lay cosily in the palm of his 
hand, which was curved over it with the impulse 
of protection. 

Enoch’s eyes dropped from the face of his 
questioner, and gazed with pensive interest at the 
snake. 

“ I tried to save this harmless thing from 
slaughter,” he made answer. “ I know not why it 
should have vexed my playfellows, but there was 
nothing else.” 

“ Why, now, the snake belongs to me,” broke 
out one of Enoch’s pursuers, a fine, fair-skinned 
little fellow of nearly the same age as himself. 
“ It was I myself who caught it by the brook, 
and long ere now should have had a stone on its 


THE BOY ENOCH. 


5 


head had not Enoch taken it from me. Truly, 
’t is a queer sight to see him fondle such foul 
creatures. ’T is as if he had a charm over them 
all. Snakes, toads, rabbits, yes, raccoons, and even 
foxes, — there is not one that will not come at 
his call, and ’t was but yesterday when he milked 
the cross cow of Goodwife Green that I heard 
many declare there was witchcraft in him.” 

“ These be strange tales,” said one of the men, 
gravely. In truth, it was none other than the 
minister himself, for ’t was an age when even 
learned men willingly accepted a supernatural ex- 
planation for that which defied their understand- 
ing. “ These be strange tales. Yet methinks I 
have heard something ere now concerning this 
matter. Have a care, child, that ye do not enter 
into communication with the evil one, who, while 
he may enable thee to do deeds that transcend 
human power, may yet be the ruin of thy soul. 
Therefore, child, look to it.” 

“Yes, Master Wilson, I will look to it,” an- 
swered little Enoch obediently, although to his 


6 


WANOLASSET. 


childish mind the discourse of the learned min- 
ister could have had little meaning. 

“ May it please you, Master Wilson, make him 
give us the snake,” now besought the boy who 
had previously claimed it. 

“ Yes, yes,” cried all the little Puritans, “ let us 
have the snake that we may kill it.” 

With his right arm Enoch tried to ward off the 
would-be destroyers of the snake, while with 
quick, supple movements he kept himself free 
of the bloodthirsty little rustics, to whose pur- 
pose it appeared the elders were not altogether 
unfriendly. 

In those days when the tie between different 
races of the human family was but feebly felt, 
the bond between our race and that of our dumb 
brothers was not perhaps even recognized. More- 
over, the slaughter of animals and birds that the 
scarcity of food in those first years after the 
landing of our forefathers in the American wil- 
derness made a necessity had awakened all the 
instincts of the hunter and trapper. These boys. 


THE BOY ENOCH. 


7 


therefore, could no more understand the sense of 
brotherhood that Enoch felt for the creatures of 
the forest — yes, for all things, even the smallest 
that bear life — than he could understand their 
impulse to destroy them. 

Their voices, however, raised again into eager- 
ness, inflamed the ready anger of Whittaker. 

“ Peace, peace ! ” he cried. “ Thy foolish clamor 
hath delayed us too long already. It behooves 
thee to rule your spirits, else the matter will be 
taken in hand. And now away with you!” 

“ But first take the snake and kill it,” cried a 
voice that was recognized as that of Christian 
Marsden, the father of Enoch. “ Nay, good 
Master Wilson,” he said firmly, as the minister 
seemed about to interpose on behalf of Enoch, 
“ this matter doth surely lie between the boy and 
myself, being a question as to my authority over 
him. So now, this being not the first nor the 
second time that he hath disobeyed my behest 
that he meddle not with such loathsome crea- 
tures, let him give up the snake in proof of his 


8 


WANOLASSET. 


proper subordination, which also will be a fulfilling 
of the scripture which saith the seed of the woman 
shall put her heel on the head of the serpent.” 

The moment that the voice of Marsden fell 
on Enoch’s ear he felt sure that the doom of the 
tiny green thing which was now figuring some- 
what grandly as “the serpent” was settled. But 
even the habit of strict obedience which the 
Puritans exacted of their children and in which 
Enoch had been bred, was not so strong as that 
unnoted law of his nature which impelled him to 
draw the snake closer to his bosom. 

In a moment, however, Marsden wrenched it 
from him, and, throwing it to the children, said 
sternly, — 

“ Hearken to me, thou heathen child ! I will 
crush this abomination out of thee and bring thee 
up in the true faith.” 

Christian Marsden was a new-comer into the 
town, and little was known of him except that he 
was possessed of unusual intellectual gifts and 
had travelled in many lands. It was whispered 


THE BOY ENOCH. 


9 


that Enoch’s mother had been a native of some 
heathen country in which Marsden had sojourned, 
which would account for all that was odd and 
foreign in the boy. At all events, Marsden had 
succeeded in satisfying the authorities that he 
was “ honest, peaceable, and free from erroneous 
opinion,” and therefore a fit person to be admitted 
into their society and township. A house lot and 
home field had been apportioned him, and his 
house was already built. 

The service in the church was long, and the 
sun was near its setting when Marsden with his 
little son walked toward their dwelling. 

At the house nearest his own, Marsden stopped. 
It was one of the rude pioneer cabins of which 
mention has been made, and, though set in fair 
order, compared unfavorably with the substantial 
building of his own. 

“ I have business here with the Widow White- 
hill,” said Marsden to Enoch. “ Thou canst return 
home, therefore, rather than tarry here till it be 
done.” 


lO 


WANOLASSET. 


Just at this moment, however, Mistress White- 
hill came around the angle of the house. She 
was a very comely young dame, with pleasant 
eyes of a soft hazel, and of a cheerful and gracious 
manner. By her finger held a smiling girl baby, 
just large enough, with this aid, to toddle over 
the stubby grass. The child uttered a cry of 
pleasure, and held out its chubby arms to 
Enoch. 

“ If it please you, neighbor, let the boy lead the 
little one to and fro for a space while we have con- 
verse within,” proposed Christian Marsden. “ He 
will look sharp that no harm befall the child, I 
promise ye.” 

The widow consenting to this arrangement, 
the two entered the house and took seats by the 
open doorway. It was Marsden’s first call, and as 
he glanced about his neighbor’s dwelling, he was 
encouraged to believe that she would not be loath 
to exchange it for his own, for he had come here 
for the purpose of asking her to Jdo his wife. 

“ Each of us doth stand in need of the kind 



JUST AT THIS MOMENT, HOWEVER, MISTRESS WHITEHILL CAME AROUND THE ANGLE 

OF THE HOUSE.” 





THE BOY ENOCH. 


I I 

office of the other,” he said. “ Of a truth thou 
art a young woman yet, and I have long past 
youth ; but the Lord hath set us down side by 
side in this wilderness, I doubt not to be a com- 
fort to each other. Moreover, my house is wait- 
ing for a mistress, and nothing bides save ’tis thy 
pleasure. The house is good and ample. Most 
comfortable is it for delicate women and children, 
and thy favor for it have I sought by building by 
the chimney a secret stairway into the cellar 
which forms a means of escape in case of an 
attack from Indians, of whom, the gossips say, 
thou standest in great fear. ’T were better, of a 
truth, to trust in the providence of God. What 
say you. Mistress Whitehill ? ” 

“ It seemeth to me, good sir, that with a fair 
means of escape from the savage enemy at hand, 
one could practise a more beautiful and Christian 
faith,” answered the widow, evading the meaning 
of Marsden’s words. 

She took a covert glance at the sombre figure 
of her suitor. Her heart had been buried in 


12 


WANOLASSET. 


John Whitehill’s grave, but she was helpless and 
lonely. Often at night when her children slept, 
she fancied she heard the stealthy steps of an 
Indian around her cottage, and the actual baying 
of the wolves often brought her heart to her 
mouth. This offer of protection, therefore, tempted 
her more than the most ardent proffer of love. 
Two vagabond Indians at that very moment 
chanced to pass her door, and as her eyes fell 
upon little Alse, it was inevitable that she should 
think favorably of that house “ most comfortable 
for delicate women and children ; ” therefore, when 
Marsden pressed the question she had previously 
evaded, she replied that she would consider the 
matter seriously and give answer a day hence. 

The “matter of business ” being completed. Mas- 
ter Marsden called Enoch to lead the baby to its 
mother, and would have taken the lad away with 
him, had not Widow Whitehill begged that he 
might for a space remain with her. When his 
father was out of sight, she drew him to her side, 
saying, — 


THE BOY ENOCH. 1 3 

“ Thou art a good little lad. I hope thou art 
happy.” 

“ Ay, that I am,” replied Enoch. “ Each day 
some new cause have I to make me glad. 
Dost know that I have found a family of foxes 
in the swamp ? The place is known to none else 
beside, and every day I go there to see how 
they fare. They follow me to the edge of the 
swamp when I come awa)^ And, Mistress White- 
hill, Awashamog, the Indian who has been cut- 
ting wood for my father, has promised to make 
a raft, and take me down the river clear to the 
town of the Praying Indians, which is in Natick, 
where Awashamog hath a son of my age. Some 
fair gift I shall carry him. Oh, we shall have a 
rare time. Beside, yesterday when I was in the 
swamp I found the finest flower ever I saw. It 
grows on a high bush, with dark glossy leaves. 
’T is of a waxy white, and it hath as sweet a color 
as shows in thy cheeks. Mistress Whitehill.” 

The flower to which Enoch referred was the 
rhododendron, said to have been first found in 


14 


WANOLASSET. 


the swamps of Medfield, and later carried to Eng- 
land to be imported by Americans as a rare 
exotic. 

“ Thou art a brave gallant, upon my word. 
Well, well, child, I am glad that thou art happy. 
And thy father, he is right kind to thee, eh ? ’’ 

“ He is never unkind,” Enoch answered, choos- 
ing an expression that more strictly described 
his father’s manner toward him. 

“ I am glad of that, for thou art a good child, 
and a gentle. Is he not, baby Alse } Why, 
thine own brother doth not play with thee, as 
gently as Enoch doth ! What wouldst thou say, 
boy, were I to give you this little one for a 
sister ? ” 

“ Thou art in jest,” cried Enoch, while a bright 
color leapt into his dark face. 

“ I speak in good earnest. What wouldst thou 
say ? ” 

“ Give me Alse, and I will love her more than 
all else, and I will share with her all that I have.” 

“ Give her half your brood of foxes, belike, and 


THE BOY ENOCH. 1 5 

take her on rafts down the river with a crafty 
savage. Ha.?^” 

She snatched the child from the floor in pre- 
tended fright, and all three laughed cheerily. 

“Yes, yes,” cried the boy, “and Alse will have 
no fear. Just now I put a wee toad in her little 
hand, and she neither cried nor tried to do it 
harm. Oh, I will love her dearly.” 

“ And wilt thou be a brother also to Ralph ? ” 

“ But he has just now killed a poor green snake 
by the brook,” said Enoch, hesitating. 

“ He is a bold boy,” said the mother, “ that I 
know, but he hath a good, true heart. I do not 
fear that thou and he would not get on together.” 

“ And when wilt thou give me Alse for my 
sister?” entreated little Enoch. 

“ Belike a week hence. Yes, so I do truly 
believe. But, Enoch, wouldst thou leave me here, 
a lone and helpless woman in this house, with not 
even a chick or a child to keep heart in me ? 
Alone? Wouldst thou have no pity, then, for 
Alse’s poor mother ? ” 


i6 


WANOLASSET. 


“Yes, yes, I would have thee also come with 
Alse to our dwelling, and I would love thee also 
dearly.” 

And wrought upon by this sad image of her- 
self she had painted, Enoch fell at her side, pro- 
testing with such distress his love and gratitude 
that she was fain to comfort him by the promise 
to give him mother, brother, and sister at one 
stroke. 

So now the smoke that issued from Marsden’s 
chimney assuring her of the fact that his supper- 
hour was at hand, she sent the child home, 
bidding him keep her secret well. 

And as he ran happily away, she said to herself 
with a smile, “ The little lad hath done all the 


CHAPTER II. 


A LITTLE PURITANS BIRTHDAY. 



LSE WHITEHILL was sitting on the 


doorstone of her stepfather’s dwelling with 
her face turned expectantly toward the high-road. 
This was but a rough roadway cut through the 
wilderness, but it connected Medfield with Ded- 
ham and through that settlement to Boston, 
which town represented the highest civilization 
of the Massachusetts Colony. A thick covert of 
trees surrounded the little hamlet, and the road 
seemed to spring out of it at the east and was 
lost again in the dark swamp on the west, now 
doubly black because of the glowing sun be- 
hind it. 

And now up the village street came Enoch 
and Ralph. They were driving their father’s 
cattle from the herds’ walk, or common pasturage; 


i8 


WANOLASSET. 


but the creatures straggled along at their own 
sweet will, while the boys talked. 

“ I tell you, Enoch, an Indian is but a beast, 
and there is no use in trying to make a man of 



him,” cried the elder lad. “A great toil of a 
truth has been this of the pious Mr. Eliot to 
translate our Bible for them ; but the only argu- 
ment that can reach an Indian is a bullet. Nay, 


A LITTLE puritan’s BIRTHDAY. IQ 

now, ’t is not my notion, but that of many wise 
men. Aye, the ministers themselves do call them 
the veriest ruins of mankind. Even the con- 
verts at Natick, which are accounted the best of 
all, are but drunken beasts.” 

“ Some drink, ’t is true, yet there are many that 
do behave themselves like true Christians ; and 
however small be the number of saved, ’t is well 
worth the efforts of such as by God’s mercy have 
been brought up in true knowledge. Why, ’t i$ 
not easy to domesticate a full-grown wolf or a 
bear, yet we know full well that ’t is a common 
thing to tame a cub. So, though small success 
is to be had with the braves, their children may 
become pious and good citizens.” 

“ Truly, brother, you argue like a book. 1 
know naught save ’t were a sad pity if you were 
to have your way and spend your life a-teaching 
Indians, — you who have such a head for 
learning. As for me, I promise ye, if, as ’t is 
commonly believed, the savages are minded 
to war with us, I shall go forth as a soldier, and 


20 


WANOLASSET. 


with rny good gun lighten your task as fast as 
ever I can.” 

“ You,” laughed the other, in his turn, — “ you, 
a boy! Aye, great things you will do.” 

“ Aye, a boy ; but look at me I Enoch, could 
I not easily pass for a man ? ” 

The lad drew himself to his full height, and 
looked with his proud blue eyes at his brother, 
who answered with ready admiration, — 

“ I believe you could. Thou art a fine fellow, 
Ralph, and a clever fellow as ever I saw at grow- 
ing. A heart to match thy great body hast thou, 
and with all thou art the veriest child that one 
can find in our settlement.” 

The two boys drew near together, clasping 
hands, and the eyes met with a true and noble 
comradeship. Each was of a fine type, — one 
built on a generous plan, with an indomitable 
spirit flashing out of honest blue eyes; the 
other smaller and darker, with the gift of fervor 
and the fine organization of the thinker. Plainly 
they were born the soldier and the enthusiast. 


A LITTLE PURITAN S BIRTHDAY. 


21 


however circumstances may strive to have it 
otherwise. 

Enoch held in his breast a gray dove, and now 
having caught sight of Alse sitting on the door- 
stone, he called to her, — 

“ See, Alse, I have not forgotten 't is your birth- 
day. I have a gift for thee.” 

The little girl tripped joyfully down the path 
and out into the road where her brothers stood. 

“ Oh, but ’tis a beautiful dove with its bright 
eyes and neck of divers colors,” she cried, taking 
Enoch’s gift in her eager little hands. “ Will 
you not make a roost for it in the barn, Ralph ? 
and perhaps its mate will come and we shall have 
a whole brood of tame pigeons.” 

“Truly that I will,” answered Ralph, with a 
twinkle in his blue eyes. “ Pigeon roasted 
before the coals or boiled in the pot makes a 
dainty meal, I promise you.” 

“ Nay, the mate of this pigeon hath already 
served as a meal for an Indian, as Awashamog 
assured me, and this one would have had a like 


22 


WANOLASSET. 


fate had I not prevailed upon him to give it to me 
in exchange for a broken jack-knife. ’T is the 
best I could do for a present for thee, Alse, who 
by right should have the best that could be 
bought for money in Boston.” 

“ And will mother not bring me some gift from 
Boston, think you Truly she will; but I doubt 
if it pleases me more than the dove, Enoch, 
though it might be even some lustrous silk ribbon 
in a knot, or brave ornament” 

“ Perchance ’t will be one of those little clocks 
called watches to wear in the pocket, which, ’t is 
said, the great folks do wear now in England,” 
said Ralph, sarcastically and with true masculine 
scorn. “ Thy silly eyes are ever caught by vani- 
ties of such sort. Oh, yes, mother will bring you 
a paste comb for the hair or glittering shoe- 
buckles belike.” 

“ Nay,” replied Alse, serenely, “but some trifle 
or other. Not much, because my stepfather will 
be by to say, ‘Tut tut, such heathen gauds do 
not become a child brought up in the fear of 


A LITTLE puritan’s BIRTHDAY. 23 

God.’ Well, I care not if only mother herself 
comes home safe and sound by nightfall. Of a 
truth, she must be timorous out so late on the 
highway, and with the talk there be of Indians, 
for never have I seen one so affrighted of Indians 
as our mother. Tell me, boys,” she went on, 
“ were the savages to sack this very town and 
carry me away into captivity, as hath happened to 
many a little girl before my day, would you do 
nothing to help me, and would I perforce become 
an ugly squaw in some savage tribe ? ” 

Many a time, as now, had Alse jestingly asked 
this question, to be answered with jests as light; 
but recent events in the colony, hereafter to be 
described, made the lads thoughtful, and both 
looked earnestly, as if striving to realize such a 
calamity as she spoke of, at little Alse standing so 
serenely in the glow of the sunset, with the gray 
pigeon on her bosom and pointing to the peaceful 
village. Ralph was the first to answer. 

“ Should such a thing befall, I would not lie 
in a Christian bed till I had found thy captor. 


24 


WANOLASSET. 


Thou wouldst have good cause to rejoice that I 
am well practised in marksmanship.” 

“ Why, now, what couldst thou do, a boy ? ” cried 
Alse. “ And as for Enoch, he would not fight 
his dear Indians for love of me, — not he. No, 
not though — ” 

“ Hush, sweetheart! ” interrupted Enoch, softly. 
“ None knows what I would not do for thee; but 
such big talk is folly, for a boy, as you say, could 
do naught where brave men fail. Yet no more 
than Ralph would I lie soft whilst thou had but 
the hard ground for thy bed.” 

“Oh, look, look!” interrupted Alse, making a 
dash into the air after the dove, which, having sud- 
denly escaped, was now fluttering over her head. 

“ Quiet, quiet ! do not stir, either of you,” cried 
Enoch ; and placing himself a few paces from 
them, he began to call softly to the dove, which 
stopped in its flight, and in an instant fluttered 
down and perched upon the boy’s shoulder, nest- 
ling cosily against his cheek. 

“ Ah, Ralph, you could call it down only with a 


A LITTLE puritan’s BIRTHDAY. 25 

gun,” cried Alse, “and I not at all. What is 
wrong with us that we cannot do as Enoch does.^^ 
What is it, Enoch ? ” she asked with sudden seri- 
ousness, as she walked slowly toward him, her 
hands open for the dove. 

“ But love him and he will love thee in return. 
That is the way with the birds. But now I hear 
the sorrel’s hoofs away in the distance, and we 
will house the cattle for the night, to be ready to 
greet the travellers. As for you, Alse, take the 
pigeon into the house and feed him well.” 

“And then he will love thee in return, for that 
also is the way with the birds,” laughed Ralph, as 
he followed his brother to the barn. 

In a few moments the sound that had been 
detected by Enoch’s quick sense became dis- 
tinctly audible, and Alse, who had returned to the 
door-stone with the dove and a dish of Indian 
meal, discerned a familiar sorrel horse, on which 
rode a man and a woman, as was a common 
custom during the first century of our colonial 
experience. The woman sat on a cushion 


26 


WANOLASSET. 


buckled to the saddle and called a pillion. Some- 
times besides his wife a man took two or three 
children on his horse ; but this economical device 
did not commend itself to Master Marsden, who 
was perhaps more regardful than others of his 
dignity. However that might be, if his children 
accompanied him on a journey, they were fur- 
nished with a separate horse, much to their 
own liking and to the advantage of their 
horsemanship. 

In truth Christian Marsden could well afford 
to humor his whims, for he was a rich man as 
wealth was accounted in those days. None save 
the minister’s family took precedence of his, for 
among our forebears there was great distinction of 
rank, and each family was assigned to its proper 
position by the tithing-man, after which no 
question of rank was possible. Marsden was 
not only a man of learning, but he was possessed 
of that dignity of character which was held in such 
esteem by the Puritans. Moreover, his wife was 
connected with one of the richest and most 


A LITTLE puritan’s BIRTHDAY. 27 

influential families of Boston. Her brother, Ben- 
jamin Oliver, was one of those Boston merchants 
that had profited by the great increase in com- 
merce, and he lived in what was thought to be a 
style of great magnificence. 

It Avas from a visit to her brother that Alse’s 
mother was now returning. She had been riding 
all day, and was greatly pleased to behold her 
own home and the journey’s end. 

Alse’s mother had changed but little in these 
years in which Alse had grown from a toddling 
two-year-old to a sturdy girl who could spin her 
five knots daily with ease. A soft bloom still tinged 
her cheeks, and the pleasant twinkle in her brown 
eyes was like the ripple in the brook that encour- 
aged one to be merry. The brightness of her 
face had ever lightened such shadows as hung so 
closely around every Puritan family with its 
sombre ideal of life and stern discipline. Her 
children (and she ever counted Enoch as one) 
were happier than their small neighbors. Yet 
their behavior was marked by a respect and 


28 


WANOLASSET. 


prompt obedience such as belongs to an age where 
reverence is in the air. Even now, when Alse 
was tingling with impatience to know what her 
mother had brought to her, she obeyed her motion 
for silence, and asked no question save with those 
lovely eyes that had an unconscious language of 
their own. 

“ Of a truth, child,” said the mother, as they 
entered the house together, “ thy uncle Benja- 
min’s family doth live in much luxury. Thou 
wouldst be well pleased with it, I doubt not. But 
to my mind this home of ours hath as comfortable 
an air.” 

Indeed, the room around which Mistress Mars- 
den cast a contented eye justified her pride and 
pleasure in it. They had entered the kitchen, 
which in every dwelling was also the living room 
of the family and always the pleasantest room 
of the house. Over the coals in the great fireplace 
the hasty pudding for supper was sputtering in 
the pot. The bright pewter, arranged in a glitter- 
ing row on the dresser, caught the gleaming light 


A LITTLE puritan’s BIRTHDAY. 29 

of the fire and brightened a shadowy corner. A 
huge carved chest of oak, that held the family’s 
supply of linen, filled a long space, and a desk 
belonging to the master of the house filled yet 
another. There was a table on which Alse 
began to set the wooden trenchers that served as 
plates, and small bowl-shaped pewter porringers 
for the porridge. Stools were used instead of 
chairs, but there were also the comfortable settles 
built into the fireplace, that in winter made the 
cosiest nook. The floor had been sanded in an 
ornamental pattern, and everything was clean and 
in exquisite order. 

“ And how does my cousin Betty fare ? ” asked 
Alse, forbidden to speak of what was foremost in 
her mind. “Tell me, has she grown as much as 
I, mother ? ” 

“No,” replied the mother, looking admiringly 
at her pretty child. “ Betty is not so tall or so 
— sturdy. (The words well favored were on her 
tongue’s tip, but she would have counted it 
little less than a sin to let the flattery slip.) 


30 


WANOLASSET. 


“ She pressed me much to send thee to Boston 
for a visit, and, of a truth, her mother and thy uncle 
Benjamin did add their entreaties to Betty’s.” 

“ And you promised for me, mother ; surely 
you did,” cried Alse, eagerly. 

“Nay, child, not for this present time; but I 
did give a half promise that if Enoch goes to 
the college thou shalt go with him for a visit to 
thy uncle’s.” 

“ Then shall I surely go,” said Alse, beginning 
to smile and to caper about over the sandy floor. 
“ Many a time I have heard father say that if 
Enoch desired it he would send him to the 
college. And Enoch doth desire it; and why 
not, since he is the very finest scholar in the 
town ? ” 

But Mistress Marsden shook her head. “ Nay, 
nay, thou dost not know all. It was his father’s 
thought that his education was to fit him for the 
ministry ; but now it doth appear that the boy 
wishes to help carry on the work of teaching the 
Indians, and his father doth not greatly favor the 


A LITTLE puritan’s BIRTHDAY. 3 1 

project. I misdoubt if he be willing to bear the 
expense of his education for such an end.” 

Marsden and the two boys now entered the 
kitchen, and the family gathered around the 
table, upon which the supper was quickly spread. 
The meals of the Puritans were probably con- 
ducted with the solemnity that marked the most 
trivial act of their daily life, but on this occasion, 
after the unusual event of a journey, it was natu- 
ral that conversation should flow more briskly 
than usual around the little circle. 

“ I rejoiced greatly,” said the good wife, “ that 
our stay in the town fell upon a training-day, for 
never before have I witnessed the exercises and 
reviews upon the common. It was a gay sight, 
and one that would have pleased thee, children, 
right well.” 

“ Oh, tell us about it, mother dear, so it please 
you,” cried Alse, wistfully. 

Childhood was grim enough in that day in 
the towns, but the lives of little rustics in the 
remote plantations were not enlivened even by 


32 


WANOLASSET. 


the parades and processions of training and 
election days, — the great festivals of our ances- 
tors. Their long tasks were broken by few 
holidays, and an account of such an event as 
Mistress Marsden spoke of was their nearest 
approach to a fairy story or a romance. 

“ Early in the morning,” began the mother, 
with regret no doubt that she could give but a 
dull word-picture in place of the gorgeous spec- 
tacle enjoyed by the eye, — “ early in the morn- 
ing, in their holiday clothes and with merry 
faces, the townspeople set forth for the training- 
field. Here, after the opening exercises of prayer 
and a psalm, a great company of men were ex- 
ercised in arms. With the bright sunshine gleam- 
ing on the polished steel of their armor, and the 
gay plumes on their morions a-waving, ’t was in 
good earnest a gorgeous spectacle. Moreover, 
the movements were made to the strains of 
music, and all the day long there was a great 
firing of guns and cannon. Beyond the train- 
ing-field were great white tents shining on the 


A LITTLE puritan’s BIRTHDAY. 33 

green, in which the people, at least those of good 
quality, ate their dinner.” 

“ And wert thou among them, mother ? ” 
asked Alse, anxiously. 

“ That I was,” answered the mother. “ Thy 
uncle Benjamin saw to it, and very good cheer 
they gave us. But I was about to tell thee of a 
trial they had in marksmanship. A prize was 
offered, and a hot time they had for it, truly, for 
he that had shot the effigy in the head and another 
whose shot lodged in the bowels both claimed 
the victory.” 

“ And which took the prize, mother ? ” asked 
Ralph. “ Surely he who hit the creature in the 
head had the right to it.” 

“ So thought the judges ; but many would have 
it that the shot in the bowels was the fatal one, 
and the fellow who was passed over was very 
sore at the decision.” 

“ A low fellow he was,” broke in Marsden. “ I 
heard that he said that the bowels be the part of 
greatest importance to a man, and that there be 
3 


34 


WANOLASSET. 


many a so-called wiseacre in the town of Boston 
whose head is filled with such useless stuff that 
’t were better off than on his shoulders. But ’t is 
child’s talk, not worth the breath of a sober man 
in these troublous times.” 

“ Well, there’ll be need enough of good marks- 
manship, I ’ll warrant, if we have the trouble that 
is expected with the Indians. It vexed me sore 
to see the calmness with which they of Boston 
contemplated the thing. ’T is not with them as 
with us in the outlying settlements, who would be 
exposed to the greatest danger from the bloody 
savages.’^ 

“ Do not fear, mother. Thou hast two sons 
who will guard thee with their lives.” 

Enoch laid his hand for a moment on that of 
the mother which lay on the table near him, but 
directly withdrew it on seeing the frown on his 
father’s face. The Puritans did not favor demon- 
strations of affection. Perhaps, to their minds, it 
partook too much of the gallantry of the English 
court, and that party who had driven them from 


A LITTLE puritan’s BIRTHDAY. 35 

their pleasant heritage into the untried waste of 
America. But, however restrained in the natural 
expression of his feelings, Enoch could not per- 
form the slightest service for his mother without 
a grace and winning tenderness that bespoke his 
loving heart; and now, though he withdrew his 
hand from hers, he refilled her porringer and 
set it by her plate in a way that was, as one may 
say, first cousin to a kiss. 

“ And what news of Indians is abroad in Boston, 
sir.^” asked Ralph of his stepfather. ‘'Joseph 
Adams, who was this day week in Dedham, says 
that there hath been, as he heard, a great gather- 
ing of the savages at Wachusett Mountain, which 
event hath excited great uneasiness everywhere. 
Already our town has ordered powder and bullets 
to the sum of six pounds and eleven shillings, and 
’t is planned that a great gun shall be bought 
later.” 

“ Well, certes, there be good prospect of a war,” 
admitted Marsden. “ The General Court hath 
passed many acts relating to this matter, and if 


36 


WANOLASSET. 


the conflict comes we shall, I doubt not, be pre- 
pared to meet it, though ’t is thought King Philip 
is stirring up bitter feeling among the different 
tribes, and if he succeeds in forming a confederacy 
among them, 't will be a desperate struggle.” 


CHAPTER III. 


THE FLOWERED SILK. 

T T was not until her husband had left the house 
that Mistress Marsden called Alse to her and 
gave her a packet that she had brought from the 
town. 

“ Here is a gift, child, that was sent to thee by 
thy uncle, and a brave gift it is, I promise you. 
Pray hasten and take the wrappings off.” 

This entreaty was hardly made before a roll of 
flowered silk was brought forth by the child’s 
nimble fingers. It was of an indescribable color, 
made by the intermingling of various hues, of 
which a rich red predominated ; and as, with a 
natural instinct for decoration, Alse draped it 
about her small person and stood by the fire that 
had sprung into sudden dancing flames, her vivid 
dark beauty impressed itself upon her companions 
as if they beheld it for the first time. 


38 


WANOLASSET. 


“ By my faith,” said the mother, with her head 
atilt and an approving smile on her pleasant face, 
“ ’t is a proper color for thee.” 

Although in deference to her husband’s opin- 
ions, Alse’s mother dressed with the simple so- 
briety of the early settlers, she no doubt shared 
the now general fondness for display and fine 
attire that was so denounced by the stern Puritan 
preachers and law-makers. At all events, what 
mother in any age does not take pleasure in the 
bedecking of a beautiful little daughter, even 
though she may chide her own worldliness in 
so doing? 

Meanwhile the two boys, looking like moles in 
their rustic clothes, stood watching wide-eyed the 
dazzling vision on the familiar hearthstone. 

“ 'T is stuff fit for a queen's gown,” said honest 
Ralph, looking first at Alse and then around the 
humble kitchen. “ Why, now, what would our 
Alse do with it ? ” 

“ Well, of a truth ’t is as pretty a piece of finery 
as ever I saw,” said his mother, “ and I did ques- 


THE FLOWERED SILK. 


39 


tion the suitability of it to our Alse in this little 
settlement; but thy uncle said, ‘ Keep the silk un- 
til the maid is grown and then send her here, and 
I ’ll warrant,’ he added, ‘ that we ’ll find her a suit- 
able occasion for the wearing of it.’ He is a 
right jovial man, thy uncle Benjamin.” 

“ But ’t is fit for a queen’s robe,” insisted Ralph, 
still troubled by the incongruity of the rich fabric 
on the form of the child, and also the sense of 
remoteness to her that it gave him. 

“No queen could wear it with a better grace,” 
said Enoch, whose sense for color and beauty 
was well pleased by the rich though soft hues 
which so set off his sister’s fairness. 

“ ’T is surely no apparel for a Christian child,” 
said the voice of Marsden, who had suddenly 
returned to the house and was now standing in 
the doorway, casting dark disapproving glances 
at his pretty stepdaughter. “ Such frippery saw 
we often in the old world in carnival times among 
other abominations which drove God-fearing men 
clear out of England. ’T is the opinion of wise 


40 


WANOLASSET. 


and holy men that the manifold evils that so 
grievously befall our country are a visitation of 
God’s wrath upon us for our iniquities, and chief 
among them for the sinful pride in clothes. 
Dost not remember,” he went on, turning to his 
wife, “ the discourse of Dr. Cotton Mather on 
the evil that has already been brought upon us 
by vanity. Now, plainly my advice in this matter 
is — give back to Benjamin this silk abomination, 
else thy child may grow up to be like the haughty 
daughters of Jerusalem.” 

Alse cast an imploring glance upon her mother, 
who in truth had some difficulty in swallow- 
ing this unpalatable suggestion. She longed 
to keep the finery, yet was restrained by the 
thought that such a deed might bring a retribu- 
tion in the ugly form of an Indian war, according 
to the philosophy of that day. 

“ Why, now,” she said at length, “ to return his 
gift would be a discourtesy to Benjamin and 
might be a cause of offence. Were it not better 
to put the silk away in the chest, where it will 
not work evil upon any one ? ” 


THE FLOWERED SILK. 


41 


“Well, well, have thy way with it,” answered 
Marsden, “ but have a care lest thou but play 
with temptation. The child is filled with vanity 
and foolishness, as it is ; therefore have a care.” 

“ That I will,” returned the good wife, soberly. 
“ Bring the silk hither, Alse, and we will even 
now put it out of sight.” 

But her husband, the stern monitor of the 
household, having now withdrawn, she was fain 
to admire yet longer the rare color and quality of 
the fabric, and also the rich loveliness of Alse, 
who still fluttered about the room like some 
wonderful phosphorescent winged creature that 
adorns the June night, alternately glowing and 
paling in the fitful firelight. 

Although disciplined into a more demure be- 
havior, no more than the children of our own day 
did Alse Whitehill escape the imperfections of 
poor humanity. She loved play and pleasure 
overmuch, and her stepfather had no difficulty 
in finding vanity in her for the text of many a 
lecture. Yet was she the sunshine of his house. 


42 


WANOLASSET. 


and long ere now had she, with that warm joyous 
smile of hers, melted his heart into unspoken 
tenderness. 

“ T is a pity, ’t is a sad pity, mother dear,” she 
now said, shaking the silk about her until its 
ruby tones glowed brighter in the firelight, “ that 
we should shut all this brave color into the dark 
chest. Truly it makes the heart ache to think 
of it.” 

“ Not so,” answered Mistress Marsden, finding 
a little loophole for hope ; “ ’t will be but the 
fresher if, by good hap, thou canst yet wear it 
as thy uncle wished.” 

“And that will be a pretty while to wait,” 
murmured the child. 

“For who knows,” went on the mother, “what 
may come to pass before thou art a woman 
grown ? ” 

“ And all that time this rare finery to be hid- 
den in the dark chest! Tell me, mother, wilt 
thou not sometimes give me so much as a look 
at it ? ” 






DEPOSITED IT IN THE GREAT RECEPTACLE. 


THE FLOWERED SILK. 


43 


At this moment a dark figure passed the door. 
It was Awashamog, the Indian. He was of 
Natick, and a convert, and though often at Med- 
field had never harmed a soul ; but Mistress Mars- 
den had not yet conquered her fear of the tawny 
men of the forest, whether still roaming thus or 
gathered by the missionaries into a town. She 
shuddered, and answered Alse with decision, — 

“ Nay, child, put it far from thy thought, lest 
ye tempt Providence to send a scourge of war 
upon us. Now bring hither the foolish gaud, 
that I may put it out of the way of harm.” 

Thus bidden, poor Alse delivered her treasure 
into her mother’s hands, and watched her dole- 
fully as she deposited it in the great receptacle, 
from which there seemed slight chance that it 
would, in many a long day, again see the light. 

“ After all,” the little girl thought, “ Enoch’s 
dove was by far a more satisfactory present than 
this rich but dangerous gift.” 

She went out in the soft dusk, and, fetching the 
dove, sat on the doorstone, where, forgetting the 


44 


WANOLASSET. 


silk, she cherished the frightened thing with such 
gentle care that presently it ceased to flutter and 
nestled comfortably upon her bosom. 

And so the night fell gently over the peace- 
ful town. 


CHAPTER IV. 


IN WHICH SOME FACTS OF HISTORY ARE BRIEFLY 
TOLD. 


LSE WHITEHILL’S eleventh birthday 



^ ^ was in the year 1675, therefore more 
than fifty years after the “ Mayflower ” brought the 
Pilgrims to Plymouth to found the first colony 
in New England. The account of the hardships 
endured by that hapless knot of adventurers in 
the savage waste of America stirs our patriotism 
more than dozens of Fourth of July orations. 
Only the shallow or those devoid of imagination, 
it seems, can belittle the inheritance gained for 
us by this heroic struggle. 

These founders of a new nation, many of whom 
were delicately bred, found themselves homeless 
at the outset of winter in a climate of a severity 
to which they were unaccustomed. The sharp 
New England blast which is so familiar to our 
ears alone welcomed them to their new home. 


46 


WANOLASSET. 


Hubbard says that after the long passage over 
the vast and wide ocean, the Pilgrims were, at 
their first landing, “entertained with no other 
sights than the withered grass on the surface of 
the cold earth and the grim looks of savage 
enemies.” 

The old historian forgot the wolves who, ac- 
cording to the Pilgrims themselves, “ sat on their 
tayles and grinned at them.” But the colonists 
were sustained by a great purpose. For the most 
part New England was colonized, not by traders 
covetous of gain, but by a united people, who 
were determined to found a state where they 
could worship God according to their own con- 
science, and who carried a splendid enthusiasm 
into their work. When, in the spring after that 
first grievous winter, the “ Mayflower ” sailed for 
the Old World again, not one of the one hundred 
passengers she had brought with her returned 
thither. In truth, forty-four of these, lying in 
untimely graves, had no choice in the matter, 
and by the time the supply ship came, before 


SOME FACTS IN HISTORY ARE BRIEFLY TOLD. 47 

the end of the first year one half of the little 
company was under the sod. The colonists 
levelled these graves, and planted their crops over 
the fallen heroes, that the Indians might not 
suspect how their ranks were thinned. They 
lived in constant terror of the red men, who had 
fiercely assaulted them before they had settled 
upon Plymouth as the place for their plantation ; 
but in March some Indians walked boldly into 
their settlement, addressing them with the words 
“Welcome, Englishmen.” 

Massasoit, the sachem of the chief tribe of that 
region, now entered into friendly relations with 
the settlers. The compact he made with them 
was faithfully kept all his life long, and the bitterest 
of our historians could never point to a single 
instance of treachery in him. 

By 1624 the brave little colony of Plymouth 
numbered one hundred and eighty persons. It 
led the way for those who in 1628 fled from the 
persecution of the English Church and began the 
settlement of Massachusetts Bay. 


48 


WANOLASSET. 


In less than twenty years after the land- 
ing of the Pilgrim Fathers, the New England 
States, with the exception of Vermont, were 
settled. 

In 1636 there was a bloody war between the 
English and the Pequots, a warlike nation occu- 
pying the territory beyond the Narragansetts. It 
took nearly forty years for the Indians to forget 
the fierce vengeance of the white men, but by 
1675 a new generation of red men had been 
goaded into that desperate attempt to drive the 
English out of their land, that is known as King 
Philip’s War; for the policy our forefathers pur- 
sued in regard to their savage neighbors was by 
no means lacking in provocations. “In Massa- 
chusetts,” so we are told by Eccleston, “the son 
of a chief, Mattoonas, was accused and convicted 
of the murder of a white man. He was not only 
hanged, but his head was cut off and stuck upon a 
pole, where it remained for -years, the colonists 
probably not suspecting the effect of such an 
exhibition on the Indians. Naturally enough. 


SOME FACTS IN HISTORY ARE BRIEFLY TOLD. 49 

the father of the young man thus used for 
a solemn example is said in Philip’s war to 
have been ‘ an old malicious villain, who was 
the first that did any mischief within Massa- 
chusetts colony.’ ” 


4 


CHAPTER V. 


AWASHAMOG. 


WASHAMOG, the Indian whose dusky 



^ figure had served as a warning to Alse’s 
mother, was seeking Enoch with the confidence 
of long friendship. Enoch easily made friends 
with the Indians, not only with the partially civi- 
lized people of Natick, but also with those of the 
wild tribes, over whose savage nature he was said 
to have a charm. In truth, it was sometimes 
whispered, with that superstition which some few 
years later led to such ghastly doings, that such 
power could only be given him by an evil spirit ; 
but the only witchcraft Enoch knew was that of a 
kind and brotherly heart. The companionship of 
the men of the forest he welcomed as naturally, 
as simply, as that of the other wild things he found 


there. 


AWASHAMOG. 


51 


Enoch was often troubled by the bitterness and 
contempt with which his own people looked upon 
the Indian, — a spirit that, in the apprehension of 
an Indian war, was daily increasing. Had the 
red men historians of their own, the list of our 
atrocities might be longer and blacker than we 
suppose. As it is, one reads of deeds of our an- 
cestors no less savage than those of the savages 
themselves, — such as that wanton act of flinging 
a pappoose into the water to prove the truth or 
falsehood of the proverb that an Indian is born 
with the ability to swim, or the atrocity of baiting 
with dogs an old squaw, which cruelty was perpe- 
trated at Hadley during King Philip’s War. 

One of the alleged motives of the English in 
settling New England was the christianizing of 
the natives, and by 1675 a fair beginning had 
been made. Several towns had been established 
for the Praying Indians, as they were called, in 
which they lived, in some degree, after the man- 
ner of the English, stumbling often no doubt in 
that first attempt to walk in the paths of civiliza- 


52 


WANOLASSET. 


tion and Christianity, and with much backsliding, 
as we have been told. Yet Eliot, who devoted 
his life to their enlightenment, saw in them evi- 
dence of progress, and believed in the sincerity of 
their professions of fidelity to the English. 

The cause of the Indians, however, does not 
appear to have been dear to the hearts of the 
Christian invaders of their land. Nor did the 
young men care greatly to apply themselves to 
the difficulty of learning the Indian language and 
of embracing a life of poverty on their behalf. 
We do not blame them, but we are grateful to 
those few disinterested men who made the attempt 
to civilize that benighted and ill-fated race over 
whose ruins our own prosperous nation has been 
built. 

Having called Enoch out of the house, Awash- 
amog led him into the thicket of trees that sur- 
rounded the settlement. 

The converted Indian wore clothes similar to 
those of white men, and Awashamog was dressed 
in leather breeches, a waistcoat and a coat of 


AWASHAMOG. 


53 


homespun. He carried a load of brooms and bas- 
kets, such as the Natick and other Christian 
Indians often brought for sale to the towns sur- 
rounding their own. Small success he must have 
had, for the load was large. In truth, he had been 
received everywhere with harshness, which fact 
Enoch rightly attributed to the bitter feeling 
which had been raised against his race by the 
rumors of war. Enoch made no explanations, 
but bought a basket, for which he paid with a few 
coins that he had been long saving; for money 
was scarce in the colonies, and payments were 
more often made in commodities. We read of 
rents paid in hogs or apples, and Indian corn was 
used as the common medium of exchange. 
Money, however, was given as bounties for the 
killing of pests: thus, blackbirds, which had become 
a nuisance, were paid for at the rate of sixpence a 
dozen ; and for that “ ravening runnagadore,” the 
wolf, a bounty of ten shillings a head was set for 
every one killed in the town limits. Ralph 
Whitehill’s skill in marksmanship served him well ; 


54 


WANOLASSET. 


but such a way of money-getting was not in 
Enoch’s mood, and what money he had came by 
hard work. Yet he laid his coins in Awashamog’s 
hand with a genial smile, saying, — 

“Take cheer; the summer is almost come, and 
then life goes more easily. Some here in this 
town have already put seed in the ground. How 
is it with thee at Natick ? ” 

Awashamog gloomily shook his head. He an- 
swered in his own language, saying, — 

“We have planted, but we know not who will 
harvest our crops. Waban, our chief ruler, has 
the second time gone to the big chief in Boston 
to tell him that Philip is plotting against the Eng- 
lish. As soon as the trees and bushes are covered 
with leaves,” added Awashamog, pointing to the 
budding maples, “ the Wampanoags, with as many 
tribes as Philip can persuade to join him, will take 
the war-path.” 

“ Well, the big chief in Boston has listened to 
Waban and already taken the matter in hand. 
So says my father, who was this day in Boston. I 


AWASHAMOG. 


55 


suppose there is no doubt of war, but, of a truth, 
’t is a sad thing when men fight each other like 
beasts. Let us not think of it. Dost remember, 
Awashamog, the time, so long ago, you took me 
down the river to Natick, and you and I and little 
Opaneweechee built a wigwam in the forest and 
lived there two days like the unconverted Indians ? 
Oh, but ’t was great sport we had.” 

“ I remember,” answered Awashamog, nodding 
his head; and a milder light shone in his gloomy 
eyes. With the instinct of gratitude that is the 
Indian’s chief virtue, he recalled an incident of 
that time of which Enoch spoke and which was 
the true birthtime of his affection for him. 

For once, during those days in the forest, he 
left the children to go some distance for ground- 
nuts. On returning, when still some space from 
them, he beheld a wolf with little Opaneweechee 
in his jaws, and now he re-lived that moment of 
helpless agony; for he had left his gun in the 
wigwam, and Opaneweechee was dearer to him 
than anything on earth. He saw Enoch stretch 


56 VVANOLASSET- 

his arms forth to the savage beast. Awashamog 
was still too far away to hear his voice ; but he 
knew that the boy was calling to him, for, suddenly 
dropping Opaneweechee, the wolf walked toward 
Enoch, and drawing near rubbed against him, like 
some affectionate domestic animal. The Indian 
child with headlong speed then ran away, leaving 
his playfellow at the mercy of the wolf, whose sav- 
age nature might at any moment reassert itself. 
Before the power of Enoch’s charm, whatever it 
might be, was passed, Awashamog killed the wolf, 
but he never forgot the peril the white child had 
been in for the sake of Opaneweechee. In the 
recollection of this incident, his grievance against 
Enoch’s race melted away, and when they began 
again to talk of the war Awashamog was ready 
to promise that he would remain faithful to the 
Englishmen. 


CHAPTER VI. 


FORBIDDEN FINERY. 

I T was a day in June ; the rosebush by the door 
of Master Marsden’s house was a mass of 
blossoms, and the little garden under the windows 
showed garden pinks, heart’s-ease, and daisies in 
fine bloom, — these last, which now^ in their season 
whiten New England fields like snowdrifts, had 
been brought over from England as a garden 
flower by Endicott, the first governor of Massa- 
chusetts Colony. But the summer breeze, so 
filled with enticements as it blew softly in at the 
open window, could not lure Alse Whitehill from 
the great kitchen, where she sat in colloquy with 
a playmate and neighbor, Susannah King. 

Susannah was seated upon the chest which 
held Uncle Benjamin’s gift, and Alse still sat 
at her wheel, though her day’s stent was done. 


58 


WANOLASSET. 


Her mother had long since taken her way into 
the town, and the two girls were quite alone. 

“ Nay,” said Alse, in answer to a question of 
Susannah about the silk, “ never since the day 
’t was given to me have I had so much as a 
glimpse of it, so that I cannot be sure whether 
the buds that branched out of the flower that 
formed the pattern of it have a line of gold 
woven around them, or whether the firelight 
made it so appear ; but ’t was wonderfully rich, I 
warrant you. The like of it you never saw, nor 
I myself, nor none else beside. Why, as Ralph 
said, ’t is stuff fit for a queen’s gown.” 

“ Oh if I might have but a look at it ! ” sighed 
Susannah, who leaned over the lid of the chest 
with eyes that would fain have pierced a hole 
through the wood to the treasure it hid. 

“ And truly there is little sense in hiding it 
there, away from the light of day,” cried Alse. 
“ Many a time I have been minded to take it out 
for a moment or two. Tell me, wouldst do it, 
Susannah ? ” 


FORBIDDEN FINERY. 


59 


“ No, no, such headiness would not go long 
unreckoned with. Don’t touch it, I pray you, 
Alse, though it might take but a moment and 
be a pleasure to think of for long after.” 

Susannah was the meekest of little Puritans. 
She had soft hazel eyes, set in a mild white face, 
with primly brushed pale hair. Usually she was 
sober, and spoke in a low, calm way, like some 
comfortable middle-aged matron, but she was a 
little excited about the silk. It seems hard that 
just to look at a bit of bright color should be a 
forbidden joy in such dull lives. Yet the little 
Puritans, knowing naught of other lives, had no 
standard by which to measure their own, and let 
us hope never found out how sombre and color- 
less they were. 

“ I know not what ailed my mother to hide 
my uncle Benjamin’s gift in the chest,” continued 
Alse. “ She is not used to grudge me a pleasure. 
I doubt, now truly I do, if she would care, were you 
and I to take a peep at it. Still, perhaps ’t were 
best to put it out of mind, eh, Susannah ? ” 


6o 


WANOLASSET. 


“Was there stuff enough for a whole gown, 
or but a mantle ?” asked Susannah, demurely. 

“ Oh, there were many ells of it. Enough for 
a whole gown, as I should judge.” 

“ And the color was red, you say ? ” 

“No, I did not, for ’t is of many colors. I 
cannot on my life remember much, except that 
here and there in the pattern came a red color 
that glowed like a jewel and made the others but 
a setting for it. By my life now, Susannah, I 
will take a look at it.” 

“ No, no, you must not,” protested Susannah, 
who, of a truth, tried to hold her back whenever 
Alse would have caught at the temptation she 
kept dangling before her eyes. This time, how- 
ever, Alse would have her way, and, stooping 
down by the chest, began to take out the contents 
until she reached the silk. 

“ It can be no harm, for we will but look at it 
a moment, and then away it goes again into the 
dark hiding-place. Ah, see now, Susannah ! 
Is it not a sad pity to hide so brave a bit of 


FORBIDDEN FINERY. 


6l 

finery as this ? Why, now, was I not right in 
saying ’t is of divers colors, with a rich red here 
and there glowing like a jewel ? ” 

“ Of a truth Ralph said well that ’t is fit for 
naught but a queen’s gown,” sighed Susannah; 
and she too draped the silk around her, as Alse 
had done, and all her young delight in gayety 
and bright color shone in her hazel eyes, so that 
it was no wonder Alse burst out : — 

“The silk hath a charm, Susannah, and makes 
the wearer like a new creature. One could not 
describe it, see you, nor yet can I remember the 
pattern and the colors of it save in one way. 
There is, as you see, a monstrous lot of the 
stuff, so that a piece off will never be missing.” 

Hardly had she spoken, and before her mean- 
ing had fairly made its way into Susannah’s 
brain, when, acting on a sudden impulse, Alse 
cut off a long narrow strip of the fabric. 

“ That is as bold a piece of mischief as ever I 
saw,” cried Susannah, aghast. “ Oh, Alse, I beg 
you to put the bit of silk back with the rest in 


62 


WANOLASSET. 


the chest, else you will bring trouble upon your- 
self and me too, belike, for urging you on. Yes, 
I did urge you on, being curious to see thy 
uncle’s gift.” 

There were even tears in the little girl’s eyes 
as she thus entreated her friend, who, as she 
rolled up the fabric and put it away, answered 
her soothingly, — 

“ Why, now, was ever such a fuss made for so 
little! Hush now, Susannah, and if ’twill serve 
to quiet thee, I promise ne’er to take another 
look at this vanity. Come, now, art thou not 
satisfied ? ” 

“ But the strip, Alse,” said Susannah, anx- 
iously ; “ you will not keep it to work mischief ? ” 

“ Nay, I ’ll not keep it for that purpose,” an- 
swered Alse, laughing. “ I ’ll keep it to put me 
in mind of my wickedness this day, which will 
therefore hinder me from doing the like again. 
But come, now, let us go out and enjoy this 
fine summer weather.” 

As the two girls left the house, Alse called the 


FORBIDDEN FINERY. 63 

gray dove that was perched in the lilacs in the 
dooryard. 

Drusilla, as the dove had been named, was now 
very tame. It would coo in answer to Alse’s 
voice, and then flutter down from its perch and 
alight on the child’s outstretched hand. Then 
would Alse talk and play with it in a pretty 
fashion of her own, translating the bird’s con- 
stant cooing into droll answers to her own ques- 
tions, until finally it would settle itself to rest on 
her bosom and feign sleep. 

On this occasion Drusilla was shy. She would 
not go through her programme, and in particu- 
lar, in spite of all entreaty, she would not nestle 
upon her mistress’s breast. 

“Now, why is this shyness all of a sudden?” 
cried Alse, petulantly ; “ ’t is a riddle, I declare.” 

“ And here ’s the answer to it,” said Susannah, 
soberly ; “ ’t is because of the flowered silk that 
is hidden under your bodice. Yea, I told you 
h would work mischief.” 

“ ’T is a sharp eye the dove has to see through 


64 


WANOLASSET. 


this stout kersey of mine. Surely, Susannah, 
there was never so lily-hearted a girl as you are. 
Well, go then, Drusilla, thou art no pet of mine, 
and when the supper-hour comes, ’t is the great 
game rooster that shall have the corn from my 
hand. Now, Susannah, if thou art not too much 
afraid of the red rag in my breast, let us go 
together into the town.” 

As they now turned in that direction, they per- 
ceived that there was an unusual stir in the street. 
With pale faces the people stood together in 
knots, some speaking in subdued tones through 
which occasionally a voice pierced in unconquer- 
able agitation, so that Susannah and Alse pressed 
curiously forward to learn the occasion of so 
great excitement. 

A messenger had just arrived at Medfield with 
the news that the long-dreaded war with the 
Indians had begun with a horrible massacre at 
Swanzey, a small settlement near Mt. Hope, the 
headquarters of Philip. The buildings had been 
burned, and when the soldiers sent from Boston 


FORBIDDEN FINERY. 


65 


arrived at the town, they found the inhabitants 
dead and lying about the streets, dismembered and 
mutilated, after the horrid manner of the savages. 

These atrocities sent a thrill of horror through 
every town of the English. The details of the 
massacre passed quickly from lip to lip, losing 
none of their hideousness in the telling. The, 
news reached Medfield upon a lecture day, when 
the people were coming from the meeting-house, 
so that there was an unwonted gathering in the 
streets. 

“ Swanzey is a long way from here, mother, 
dear ; ’t is far away,” cried Alse, seizing her 
mother’s gown, and looking up into her face, 
which had lost its pretty English color. 

“A long way off, silly child ! ” repeated a 
neighbor, too overcome by fright to reassure the 
trembling girl. In truth, in that fearful moment 
when the first shock of the coming strife was 
felt, it would have been impossible to hide the 
general consternation from the children’s eyes. 
“Yet these bloody savages do hem us on every 
5 


66 


WANOLASSET. 


side ; and so treacherous are they that ’t is a 
question whether we are not in as great danger 
from our friends as from our enemies.” 

“Take courage, neighbor,” said a good- wife of 
a fuller voice and stouter heart than the last 



THE NEWS FROM SWANZEY. 


speaker ; “ our troops have already gone in pursuit 
of the barbarous heathen, and will soon punish 
them for their insolence and bloody practices. 
Such fear, to my mind, argues a want of faith in 
God, who, I warrant ye, will not let the heathen 
triumph over His own people.” 


FORBIDDEN FINERY. 


67 

“ But if, as some say, He lets loose the savages 
upon us to chastise us for modifying the law 
against the heretic and for our wicked pride in 
clothes, what then, goodwife ? ” 

During this conversation poor Susannah had 
been standing by Alse’s side, wide-eyed and pale. 
Now she drew her friend aside to whisper, — 

“ See now what mischief we have worked. 
’T is my belief that thy flowered silk has caused 
all the trouble.” 

“ Now, what folly is that,” cried Alse, angrily. 
“ The massacre at Swanzey took place long ere 
I touched the silk. Let us keep our wits, Su- 
sannah, till the Indians have our scalps, when 
there will be good reason that they should part 
company.” 

She shook herself free from her timorous friend, 
and joined Enoch, who now came hurrying down 
the road, eager to overtake the knot of people from 
which Alse had detached herself and of which 
his mother made one. 

“She will be beside herself with this awful 


68 


WANOLASSET. 


news,” he had said to Ralph ; “ let us hasten and 
do what we can to cheer her.” 

The sight of Enoch greatly inflamed the 
women’s excitement. They began to berate him 
because of his familiarity with the Indians, saying 
that if he did not keep a wide distance between 
himself and his friends, the town would take the 
matter in hand. 

Even his mother, although she did not add her 
reproaches to those so showered upon him, spoke 
no word in his behalf, and when they had gone 
within, she begged him to use scant courtesy with 
Awashamog and others of his town. 

Enoch tried to point out the distinction between 
the wild tribes and these poor Praying Indians, 
who, as events proved, were the greatest sufferers 
from the war between the barbarians and the 
English, distrusted and abused as they were by 
both. 

“ Nay, dear mother,” the boy said earnestly, 
“these Indians do make common cause with us, 
and desire their fidelity shall be proved. Why, 


FORBIDDEN FINERY. 


69 


see you, their towns, but a few miles distant from 
each other, do gird our settlements, and they are 
already making forts, where, with some of our 
troops to help them, they will form a defence 
against the enemy. I speak not from any partial- 
ity of my own, mother, but it is the advice of good 
Mr. Eliot and Mr. Gookin, the superintendent of 
the Indians, to make use of the Christian Indians 
and trust them.” 

“ Speak not of it ; they are ever full of treach- 
ery and deceit,” cried Mrs. Marsden, for in her 
fear she was exceeding bitter. “ They would 
kill us with the very arms given them for our de- 
fence ; ” and she fell to weeping, and Enoch, seeing 
she was in no condition to listen to reason, for- 
bore to press the matter further. 


CHAPTER VII. 


AN UNEASY CONSCIENCE. 


LTHOUGH Alse Whitehill had a steadier 



^ nerve than her friend Susannah, the pos- 
session of the unlawfully gotten bit of silk some- 
times caused her much uneasiness, for it was true 
that, as Susannah pointed out, a great many 
calamities followed the taking of it. 

The English troops that pursued the haughty 
Philip drove him from Mt. Hope, but at the same 
time a party of Indians fell upon Dartmouth, 
burning many buildings and committing such 
barbarities upon the people as make one faint to 
read of. Some were roasted over slow fires, some 
impaled on stakes, and others flayed alive ; and be- 
fore the horror this excited had time to abate, 
Middleton and Taunton. were assaulted. These 
towns were within the jurisdiction of Plymouth, 
the first colony of New England. 


AN UNEASY CONSCIENCE. 


71 


These depredations kept the people of Massa- 
chusetts Colony in constant alarm, and in three 
weeks after the massacre at Swanzey, Mendon, a 
small settlement of her own, was destroyed and 
such of the inhabitants as had not previously 
abandoned the place were burned by the savages. 
Now it was that Medfield found itself one of the 
outermost towns; for in 1675, 

King Philip’s War, the territory that is now cov- 
ered by thriving towns was a wilderness, only 
broken here and there by struggling settlements. 
If therefore the Connecticut River Indians and 
the Nipmucks were minded to follow the exam- 
ple of the Wampanoags, the little hamlets on the 
Connecticut River, from Springfield to North- 
field, and Brookfield and Lancaster, the two 
towns of Worcester County, were in imminent 
danger; and as an actual fact these towns w^ere 
the next to suffer. 

In December it w^as found that the Narragan- 
setts had broken the faith they had pledged to 
the white men and were assisting Philip in the 


72 


WANOLASSET. 


war. These Indians were gathered in great force 
in a swamp in Rhode Island, and it was deter- 
mined by the English to break their power in 
his stronghold. A force of a thousand men was 
raised for the purpose. 

There was great excitement in Boston and all 
the country round about. A summons was left 
at the house of each drafted man, and if he failed 
to appear, some other member of the family must 
take his place. 

It was a great mortification to Ralph White- 
hill that in his house there was not one to help 
chastise the barbarous foe ; but his stepfather was 
too old for such adventure, and for himself, though 
he pleaded long and earnestly for permission to 
join the troops, it was not given him. 

“ No, no, no,” his mother would wail in dis- 
tress, “thou art but a boy, — a child forsooth. 
It seems but yesterday that thou wast held upon 
the knee to keep thee from venturing into every 
danger.” 

Then would Ralph answer scornfully, — 


AN UNEASY CONSCIENCE. 


73 


“A boy, mother — a child upon the knee! 
Look at thy nursling. Easily might he pass for 
a man, and I ’ll warrant he would make a few of 
those murderous red-skins bite the dust ere they 
had his scalp ! which speech surely was not of 
a kind to incline his mother’s mind as he wished. 

The expedition in which Ralph would have 
joined was successful, and the storming of the 
great swamp fortress of the Narragansetts was 
one of the most daring exploits of history. If 
the English could have followed up their victory, 
perhaps they would have soon put an end to the 
war, but, owing to the impenetrability of the 
wilderness at that season, by reason of the snow 
and the exhaustion of the soldiers, they dis- 
banded, while the Indians broke up into small 
marauding bands, and ranged the gloomy forest 
ready to fall upon any defenceless settlement. 
In February they attacked the lovely village of 
Lancaster, and carried into captivity many help- 
less women and children. Thus cruelly exposed 
to the ruthless enemy lay our poor town. Cap- 


74 


WANOLASSET. 


tain Oakes, having come from “ the grizzly sight 
of the mines of Lancaster,” reported that the 
enemy was making for Nipmuck, whereupon Mr. 
Wilson wrote to the governor and council set- 
ting forth the perilous position of Medfield. 

“ Now the rode from Nipmuck is fair for these 
caniballs,” he wrote, “ be pleased for God’s sake to 
remember us, and let some considerable sufficient 
force be sent to us for our speedy reliefe before it 
is too late, by the soonest that can possibly be, 
lest Medfield be turned into ashes and the smoke 
of it amaze such as shall behold it. Oh, let not 
a day passe without preparations hereunto, tho' 
they come in the night.” 

A few days after this letter was written a com- 
pany of eighty men under command of Captain 
Jacobs came marching into the distressed town 
amid the great rejoicing of the people. This 
force, together with Captain Oakes’s company of 
twenty horsemen and seventy-five of the towns- 
men well armed, formed, as it seemed, a suffi- 
cient defence against the enemy. 


AN UNEASY CONSCIENCE. 


75 


But now, with the exception of a few persons 
more cautious by nature than the others, a danger- 
ous feeling of security fell upon the inhabitants, 
and in particular our foolish Alse was much em- 
boldened by the presence of the soldiery. 

“Why, now, Susannah,” she would say, quoting 
Ralph, who in turn had quoted the speech of 
another, “ the savages will not fight face to face 
with the white men, never will they dare attack 
our town, so well guarded as it is. As for the 
flowered silk that you do ever point out as a mis- 
chief worker, ’t is long ago since I was so foolish 
as to make a boast of it. Now, I promise you I 
should think twice before I should fall into so 
grievous a temptation as to open the chest.” 

The Sunday after the arrival of the troops was 
a clear warm winter’s day, and for all the trouble 
of the times, as she went forth to the meeting- 
house, little Alse could not help her heart from 
leaping within her. It was a strange scene that 
met her eye. First there were the soldiers, whose 
buff coats and glittering breastplates and head- 


76 


WANOLASSET. 


pieces contrasted oddly with the sober procession 
of church-goers in plain Puritan garments, with 
their minister at their head. He was the son of 
Boston’s first preacher, but of a generation reared 
under the narrow laws and stern religious belief 
of the Bay Colony. His countenance was of a 
gloomier cast, belike, than his father’s. However 
that may be, on this especial day of his life, when 
from his pulpit he so seriously warned the people 
of their danger from too great confidence in the 
defence of their town, he could not have been 
over-cheerful. Among the sober company now 
and then might be seen some foolish damsel 
flaunting all her finery, conscious that soldiers 
have sharp eyes as well for a pretty woman as the 
uncouth forms of Indians, and no doubt dodging 
the eye of the tithing-man, lest, as happened to 
many a poor girl in that day, she would be 
brought before the court for her “ wicked apparel.” 
But now so apprehensive had the people become, 
so impressed with the belief that recent calamities 
were a visitation of God’s wrath upon them for 


AN UNEASY CONSCIENCE. 


77 


their sins, that dark frowns met these vain vir- 
gins on every side and even followed them into 
the church. Here, indeed, they were forced to 
listen to a terrifying discourse on the iniquities of 
which the people had been guilty, with frequent 
references to the especial sin of vanity. 

Whether this too, with so many discourses of 
like kind before, left their obdurate hearts un- 
moved, or whether the flaming sword that always 
figured in these discourses now being more 
plainly visible in the destructive hordes of sav- 
ages ready to rush upon their town, they were 
fain at length to cast off their fine apparel, is not 
now to be known. Be that as it may, in that 
hushed assembly was one who listened with re- 
morseful terror while good Mr. Wilson’s denun- 
ciations rolled overhead, — one whose heart beat 
quick and hard under a strip of red silk. 

On coming out of the church, Alse found that 
the people who had preceded her own family 
were excitedly gazing to the westward toward two 
small eminences called Noon Hill and Mt. Nebo, 


78 


WANOLASSET. 


a fair view of which was to be had from the rising 
ground on which the church stood. 

“ Here comes one whose eyes be sharper than 
the ordinary,” cried a good man to one of the sol- 
diers, and pointing to Enoch. “ Look, boy, and 
tell us if there be Indians, as we think, on yonder 
hills.” 

“ Yes, surely there are,” answered Enoch, turn- 
ing his young eyes in the direction indicated. 
“ I can see them plainly, though they appear 
but the size of ants on the smooth sides of the 
hills.” 

“ And what means their presence there,” cried 
one, “ but that they mean to fall upon the town } ” 

The fear, however, that in the face of so many 
soldiers the savages would make an attack was 
universally derided. Only a few timorous souls 
shook their heads, and remembered that one night 
before the coming of the troops there had been a 
hideous baying of a kennel of wolves which had 
been regarded by all the town as an ill omen. 

This little incident had the effect of fortifying 


AN UNEASY CONSCIENCE. 


79 


Alse’s resolve to rid her hands and conscience of 
the mischief-working silk. 

And in good truth it might well be called so, 
though never an Indian were to raise his hand 
against his white brother ; for the greatest mischief 
an evil deed works is in the doer’s own bosom. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE ATTACK. 


LL that Sabbath Alse in vain sought an 



opportunity of speaking to her mother 


alone. 


The chances for tete-artUes must have been 
very small in those days, when the entire family 
sat together in the kitchen, which the difficulty 
of heating rooms made a general custom. More- 
over, on this occasion there were two soldiers 
who had been billeted to their house, and who, 
as it seemed, were always passing in and out. 
Our Puritan ancestors thought that a quiet walk 
on a Sabbath day partook of the nature of a 
mortal sin, else poor Alse might easily have 
drawn her mother into the open air and there 
relieved her conscience of its burden. 

For the sense of quiet and the apprehension of 
a great disaster to come through her agency had 


THE ATTACK. 


8l 


taken possession of her. Such a belief, absurd 
as it seems now, must have been natural enough 
then, when the most illogical statements of this 
kind were constantly made by the wisest and 
most learned men. 

Sometimes the strain of her secret thousfhts 
and fears was too great, and she had almost 
yielded to the impulse to cry out and denounce 
herself, even in the presence of the two grizzly 
soldiers who sat talking with her stepfather 
before the fire. But each time her native pride 
and strong will came to her rescue, and forced 
her to wait for a more fitting opportunity. 

After dark she slipped out into the dooryard 
with the determination of burying the now hate- 
ful rag of red silk. 

’T was a warm night, with soft clouds scud- 
ding over the sky, hiding and revealing a pale 
moon. Gentle though it was, to Alse it seemed 
rank with horrors. On reaching the edge of the 
pasture beyond the barn, she was just setting 

about her task when the horrible figure of a 
6 


82 


WANOLASSET. 


savage stepped out of the thicket. For an in- 
stant Alse was paralyzed with terror, then fled 
for her life. It seemed as if her pursuer was 
upon her very heels; but as she looked back 
from the door-stone no form was visible except 



that of one of the soldiers coming toward the 
house from another direction. 

“ Indians ! Indians ! ” cried Alse. 

Having taken a quick glance around the peace- 
ful dwelling, the soldier laughed and patted her 
blanched cheek. 

“ What dost thou at thy age abroad so late ? ” 


THE ATTACK. 83 

he said kindly. “ ’T was thy fear thou saw, child, 
and no Indian.” 

Nor could he be persuaded to give any differ- 
ent interpretation to her story. 

But one may be sure Alse stirred no more 
that night from the fireside. 

Having slept the deep sleep of healthy child- 
hood, Alse awoke early on that fatal Monday 
morning. 

She lay warm and happy in her trundle-bed, 
for her fear had passed with the drifting night 
shadows. The familiar sounds of the cocks’ 
crowing, of the cooing of Drusilla, and the low- 
ing of the cattle made the thought of the Indian 
figure of the previous evening seem remote and 
unreal. Yet though she was no longer urged to 
it by fright, she meant to heed the warning of 
Susannah and the voice of her own conscience. 

Nay, Indians or not, she had no wish to grow 
vain and trifling, and though of a truth rich ap- 
parel pleased her fancy, it was as naught com- 
pared with the graces of a good and pure heart. 


84 


WANOLASSET. 


A dear, true, happy child, she lay there, when 
suddenly the voices of Ralph and Enoch, whose 
office it was to go out early to the barn and feed 
the cattle, roused the household with cries of fire. 

For the town was even now swarming with the 
hideous savages, buildings aflame, and the terri- 
fied people flying for their lives to the garrisons. 

Immediately the Marsden family were in the 
street, making for the house of Master Wilson, 
which had been fortified as strongly as possible 
for such an attack. The secret stairway con- 
structed for just such an emergency, now, as a 
means of escape, failed to inspire any confidence, 
except to Enoch, whose earnest entreaties that 
they should remain in their own house rather 
than trust to the chance of reaching a garri- 
son were disregarded. Alse found herself pulled 
out of the house into the gray morning ; and what 
a sight the dawning light revealed ! 

“ Run, Alse, run ! ” she heard her mother cry. 
“ Do not wait for me. Thou canst run fast. 
Run ! " 


THE ATTACK. 85 

Once she looked back and beheld Enoch and 
Ralph dragging their mother forward. Next 
she saw a number of persons issuing from a 
neighbor’s house. Like herself, they were run- 
ning to the garrison; but presently one among them 
shrieked and fell. Alse had heard the bullet whiz- 
zing past her on its fatal errand. Then a cloud 
of smoke from a burning building blinded her. 

“ Mother ! mother ! ” screamed the child in 
terror. 

For answer there was a hideous yell, she found 
herself seized and carried away she knew not 
whither. No choice had she but to flee with 
the furious savage. 



CHAPTER IX. 


IN THE WILDERNESS, 


REATLY rejoicing in the destruction of 



VJ another of the enemies’ settlements, the 
Indians encamped on a hill west of the river 
in plain sight of the poor distressed town. Here 
they built a great fire, and after killing one of 
their captives, who angered them with her cries, 
threw her body into the flames. A piteous 
lesson it was to others to endure in silence their 
hard fate. After this, Alse dared not so much 
as utter one complaint. 

The chill air of the early morning benumbed 
her body, but her mind was awake to the keen 
anguish of a prisoner in the hands of a savage 
enemy. She was quite weak from the violent 
beating of her heart, which her fright caused, and 
though so cold, she dared not approach the fire, 
for fear of these bloody wretches, who were now 


IN THE WILDERNESS. 


87 


preparing to roast an ox which they had taken 
from the town, and were hooting and dancing as 
was their fiendish manner after a victory. 

When the meat was done, the Indian who had 
captured her, and who was now her master, offered 
her a small piece ; but Alse was too wretched to 
eat, — an abstinence she afterwards regretted. 

Every story of Indian captivity which she had 
ever heard came back to torture her. While she 
was sitting thus, with white woebegone face over 
which the tears were silently streaming, one of 
the Indians came and asked her why she wept. 

“ I shall be killed ! ” the child cried, overmas- 
tered by her terror, which the approach of the 
Indian increased a hundred fold. But his answer 
for the time checked this fear ; for he assured 
her that if she would go willingly with them 
and not try to escape, she would not be hurt. 

From the moment Alse had felt the clutch of 
those savage arms, the hope of finding a chance 
to escape had never for a moment been out of 
mind. Now a realization of the danger of recap- 


88 


WANOLASSET. 


ture forced her to relinquish this hope. Yet 
she would not despair while the Indians tarried 
here, so near the town, and where at any moment, 
it seemed, they might be overtaken by the Eng- 
lish soldiers. The apparent danger the Indians 
were running in this situation astonished her, 
for she did not know that, to prevent pursuit, 
they had burned the bridges over the lagoons 
made by the two rivers outside the town. She 
took comfort from the thought of Ralph’s dogged 
resolution, and the marvellous ingenuity of Enoch, 
and the love which would drive them after her 
into the wilderness. 

She was stout of heart, our Alse, for after the 
first shock and terror of capture, she grieved 
much for the anguish of her poor mother, and 
would say bravely to herself, — 

“ ’T is a mercy ’t is I and not she that is now in 
this plight, for never was any one so affrighted of 
an Indian as my mother. Sure, her soft heart 
would faint were she in the midst of this savage 


crew. 


IN THE WILDERNESS. 


89 


Even now, beside those tears that she shed 
for herself, were many also for the poor mother, 
frantic, as she well knew, at the thought of her 
child in such hands in the rough unsearchable 
wilderness. 

After the horrors of that day, a night fell that 
was yet more doleful. It grew colder rapidly, for 
the wind changed from the south and came 
shrieking from the northwest, as if in league with 
the cruel demons around her. Alse had been 
hurried out of the house without proper protec- 
tion against the chill winter morning. What 
would she not give for her good camlet cloak 
lined with red duffel, and so warm that many a 
sunny winter’s day, were she but going to some 
near neighbor’s, she had been loath to wear it. 
And oft it happened, when a chill wind came up, 
her mother had sent Ralph or Enoch with the 
cloak to bring her home, — so careful had they 
been of her. And now the tender girling must lie 
all the night through on the frozen ground, with 
no coverlet unless the snow should make one. 


90 


WANOLASSET. 




fi 


A doleful night indeed! Wolves bayed, and 
the half-human creatures around the fire howled 
and danced till a late hour, in their 
joy at the misery they had caused. 
If for a moment Alse slept, ’t was 
to waken with suffocating fright as 
her eyes unclosed upon the wild 
and horrible scene. Indeed, she 
had need of all her native cheer- 
fulness and courage in this plight, 
and her hope rose and fell like the 
fitful firelight in the wind. 

In the early morning the Indians 
set out from that place, all day 
they journeyed through swamps and 
woods, impassable to all save the 


i, 



IN THE WILDERNESS. 


91 


aborigines. Often they waded through icy brooks 
and climbed steep hills. When, in the bitterness 
of her rage or from exhaustion, 

Alse held back, her master, a big 
surly savage, drove her onward with 
the handle of his hatchet. 

All the food they had plundered 
in the town was wasted, and they 
made no provision for the journey. 

The Indian is accustomed to long 
marches without food, but the deli- 
cate women and children they have 
carried into captivity have ever 
suffered cruelly with hunger. So it 
was with poor Alse. A few ground- 
nuts must suffice for the whole day. 



%^jfl 


92 


WANOLASSET. 


and at night, after the weary travel, she dared 
not ask for the food she so sorely needed, lest 
a knock on the head would be given her by her 
angered master. 

At last one day, as they were travelling, the 
Indians began to whoop in a manner very terrify- 
ing to the captives, in their ignorance of what 
such an outcry portended. 

It was the scalp halloo, as ’twas called, by 
which a returning party signify to the camp from 
which they have set out on some work of destruc- 
tion, their victory and the number of scalps they 
have taken. 

They were soon answered by a similar whoop- 
ing, until the forest rang with hideous yells. In 
a short time they reached the camp, — where a 
great company of savages surrounded them, ask- 
ing questions and exulting over their horrible 
work. With these Indians, who were the same 
band that had fallen upon Lancaster, were a num- 
ber of English captives, the mere sight of whom, 
for all they were as helpless as herself, was a com- 
fort to Alse. 


IN THE WILDERNESS. 


93 


Among this company were the wife and chil- 
dren of Alse’s master, and she became the servant 
of this old squaw. The young savages surpassed 
their father in cruelty. If it were cold, no matter 
how much spare room there might be around the 
fire, they would not suffer her to approach it, and 
often at night they would push her out of the 
wigwam and leave her to the chance of the hospi- 
tality of some more kindly natured Indians than 
themselves. They delighted to offer her food and 
when she would put forth her hand to receive it, 
snatch it away. Once, impelled by the fierce 
pain of hunger, she succeeded in seizing a bit of 
bear’s meat which was held out to her on the end 
of a stick, and would have run off with it had she 
not been caught by the Sannup, her master, who 
threatened to kill her if she ever did the like 
again. 

Of a truth, the Indians themselves were now 
in hard straits for food, and the life of the 
captives hung in a balance between their mas- 
ters’ desire of ransom-money and the incon- 


94 


WANOLASSET. 


venience of providing food enough to keep them 
alive. 

Having made many a day’s hard journey, the 
Indians at length reached the Connecticut River, 
on the opposite side of which was King Philip 
and a great crew of heathens. 

During this war the name of Philip, the sachem 
of the Wampanoags, was one to conjure with. 
As He was never seen in any encounter, and 
was only visible in his foul work, he was dreaded 
as an invisible malignant spirit would be. When 
Alse heard that on crossing the river they were 
to join the fierce Wampanoags with Philip at 
their head, she was sorely afraid, and when her 
turn came trembled so violently that it was with 
the utmost difficulty she got into the canoe. 

On landing on the opposite shore, the Indians 
were found to be gathered together in great 
numbers; and so oppressed was Alse by the 
sight of so many savages that she believed that 
the English troops would never conquer them. 

Most formidable they looked, their faces painted 


IN THE WILDERNESS. 


95 


in various styles. Some in vermilion, others 
with one side of the face in white, the other in 
black, and wearing turkey or eagle feathers in 
the hair. One old chief was especially hideous 
with deer-horns dyed red, and worn across the 
head like a crescent. Afraid to move, almost to 
breathe, Alse sat in a heap on the ground, with 
heart beating like some poor snared bird, while 
these wild, uncouth creatures came and looked 
at her. Among the others came Philip’s son, 
Metacumsett, a little lad of nine years. He was 
straight as an arrow, and he had the black and 
flashing eyes of his race. There was nothing to 
distinguish the sachem’s son from the other 
Indian boys, except the strings of wampun 
beads around neck and waist, and a long 
knife which he handled with pride, and which, 
no doubt, had once been the property of some 
Englishman who had fallen under the fatal 
tomahawk. 

Having looked long, with evident approval, at 
Alse, the little fellow went away, and, returning. 


96 


WANOLASSET. 


brought a few ground-nuts and a handful of 
samp which, with many protestations of friend- 
ship, he offered her ; but she, poor child, having 
been so often tantalized by like offers that 
meant nothing, would not touch the food, much 
as she longed for it ; whereupon he set his offer- 
ing down upon the ground beside her, and again 
went away. 

The kindness of the lad, and the refreshment 
of this meagre meal, much revived the little 
girl’s courage. 

In truth, so cheerful and courageous was Alse’s 
temper, and so well she kept the natural sunny 
sweetness of her smile, that soon she won the 
favor of the Indians, who called her Wanolasset, 
— the-little-one-who-laughs, — and she was treated 
with less harshness than others, who, by their 
continuous grieving, angered their brutal masters. 

Yet she had much to endure. Her master was 
of a passionate temper, and when matters went 
ill with him, he would visit his anger upon his 
poor captive. When he was in great strait for 


IN THE WILDERNESS. 


97 


food, then was he more cruel than at other times, 
and as food became more and more scarce, it 
well behooved her to keep out of reach as much 
as possible. 

What with hard travelling, scant food, and 
much exposure to the cold, Alse lost somewhat 
of her vigorous strength. If an Indian wan- 
dered but a few miles from his wigwam, it was his 
custom to carry with him all his miserable pos- 
sessions. A big load of such merchandise must 
be carried by every captive, which added much 
to the wearisomeness of travel. 

One day as they were setting forth, so out- 
rageous a load was given to Alse that she could 
scarcely stagger under its weight. As kicks and 
blows were the only arguments her master ever 
used, she did not complain, but started forward 
with the others with as much patience as she 
could. But so often she fell behind, thus for- 
cing her master to go back and drive her on- 
ward, that at length he declared he would kill 
her at once, rather than be hindered by her 
7 


WANOLASSET. 


weakness; and perhaps in his anger he would 
have done so had not fear lent its strength to 
Alse, who went on again quickly with her load. 

At noontime they came to a steep hill. The 
sides of it were coated with ice, on which Alse 
continually slipped, so that many a fall she had 
that day. Sometimes, to add to the difficulties of 
the way, her master’s children flung snow in her 
eyes, and blinded her so that she struck against 
trees or bushes. Then such a shouting there was 
by those merciless little savages. 

But suddenly, when she was at the end of her 
endurance, and believed that she must now die, for 
even at the urging of her master’s tomahawk she 
could go no further, her tormentors were put to 
rout, and she saw the little son of Philip with his 
flashing knife. At first she believed that he, too, 
meant to do her mischief, but instead of that, he 
took half of her load, and, giving her his hand, 
helped her on. Had it not been for this timely aid, 
it would have been impossible for her to have 
completed this day’s journey. 


IN THE WILDERNESS. 


99 


Now in this circuitous and aimless march, the 
Indians were plainly trying to evade the English, 
rather than acting from any plan. Up and down 
the wilderness they wandered, famine-stricken and 
disheartened, yet able still to hold out and harry 
the enemy. 

Instead of meeting a foe in fair fight, Indian 
warfare is always by ambuscade and surprise. 
Often by feigning retreat, they led a small band 
of the English into their power. For the tricks 
of a forest war were but slowly learned by the 
white men, who marched in closed ranks, enabling 
the savages in their hiding-place to reckon their 
strength at a glance, and easily mow them down, 
while they looked in vain for their enemy. The 
Indian village could gather up its skirts, as it 
were, and flee before an attacking party ; but the 
English towns were at the mercy of the scattered 
bands of infuriated Indians, who, after the destruc- 
tion of the Narragansett fort, homeless, hungry, 
and vengeful, wandered through the forests. 

Many a time at night, Alse listened with a beat- 


lOO 


WANOLASSET. 


ing heart while one went about yelling and halloo- 
ing to give notice that there was a murderous 
attack planned on some poor, unsuspecting town. 
Then would the Indians grind corn or ground- 
nuts, or collect what they could for provisions for 
the journey, and in the morning away they 
would go. 

And ever, it seemed to Alse, the result of the 
expedition was the same. For when the return- 
ing party was within ear- reach, then would she 
hear the scalp halloo, — a long yell for each scalp 
or prisoner they had taken, and at the end of that 
quick, ear-piercing shouts of triumph — always 
triumph. Then would they come quickly with 
their hideous exultation, showing the scalps they 
had taken, and hooting, dancing, and singing in 
their fiendish joy. Often they brought captives 
doomed to suffer, perhaps to die of torture. And 
many a sight unfit for childish eyes was Alse 
forced to look on. 

It is well our forebears had the stout hearts and 
healthy nerves of a strong race, else few would 


IN THE WILDERNESS. 


lOI 


have survived the shock that is even yet perhaps 
reverberating in the nervous race who now enjoy 
the conquered land. 

One morning the Indians came to a stream. 
Many followed it on rafts or in canoes, but Alse, 
with some of the Indian children, ran along on the 
shore. 

Alse had by this time gained sufficient knowl- 
edge of the language to understand what was said 
to her, and now she overheard the children say : 

“ She eats so much her master is going to 
knock her on the head. Come, let us save him 
the trouble, and throw her into the river.” 

Then poor Alse tried to hide herself ; but they 
quickly found her, and, dragging her to the river, 
forced her to go on with them till they came to a 
high rock. From this rock the young Indians, 
with great force, flung her into the stream ; but she 
was able to keep her head above water, by hang- 
ing on to the bushes that overhung the river. 
Seeing this, the little heathens got sticks, and 
struck her till she let go her hold, and would have 


102 


WANOLASSET. 


drowned, if help had not come, in the form of 
Philip’s boy, who, scattering the children, helped 
her up again on to the bank. 

Although Alse did not know whether the 
children had spoken the truth in regard to her 
master’s intention, or but wished to frighten her, 
she was greatly troubled. 

That night, although nearly famished, she 
dared not ask him for food, lest it would anger 
him, and remind him of his evil purpose ; but she 
went out and begged a little samp of an old 
squaw who had sometimes been kind to her. 

On coming back to the wigwam, she found her 
master with Philip’s son. He was trying Meta- 
cumsett’s knife on a piece of wood, and, believing 
that he had borrowed it but to carry out his cruel 
intention, she would have run away. But the 
sannup called her to come to him, and told her 
that he had sold her for the knife, and she must 
go away with her new master. 

Then the boy took her hand and led her away 
to his father’s wigwam. Here he gave her food, 


IN THE WILDERNESS. 


103 


and Wootonekanuske, his mother, spread a deer- 
skin before the fire for her to sleep on, and when 
she had lain down upon it, covered her feet with 
another, so that she was warm and comfortable 
all night 

With this change of masters, Alse’s captivity 
became more endurable. The boy was kind to 
her, and angry if any one used her ill. Wootone- 
kanuske also treated her well. At first, Alse 
greatly feared Philip, but in time, as he did her 
no harm, even this fear faded away. 

At last Alse heard that a letter had been sent 
from the Council at Boston about the redemp- 
tion of the captives, and soon after the Indians 
started for Mt. Wachusett, where it was supposed 
some among them would be redeemed. 

It was a sorry journey to that mountain ; but 
not a white captive in the company but travelled 
the whole distance with a cheerful heart. And 
now it seemed, when they were fain to go quickly, 
the Indians went at their slowest pace, stopping 
often, sometimes two nights at a time. 


104 


WANOLASSET. 


Before she had exchanged her old master for 
the present one, Alse had been continually asked 
by the Indians how large a ransom would her 
friends mve for her, but from that time all such 
question ceased. Now, with great anxiety, she 
asked it of herself, for all her hopes were set on 
this last chance, as it seemed, of release. 

When they had come to Mt. Wachusett, a 
second letter from the Council at Boston about 
the captives was brought to this company by 
two of the Natick Indians, who were glad to 
show their loyalty to the English by acting as 
commissioners. 

There was now great discussion among the 
Indians as to whether they should let the cap- 
tives go. A large number of them (especially 
among the Nipmucks, who were discouraged, and 
overawed by the white men, and wished therefore 
to conciliate the Council at Boston) were in favor 
of accepting the ransoms ; but the fierce Wampa- 
noags wished to make no concessions, and of 
these the sachem Philip was the most obstinate. 


IN THE WILDERNESS. 


105 

The matter was the occasion of a bitter quar- 
rel ; but many of the captives at that time were 
redeemed by their friends, and went away 
rejoicing. 

At length the commissioners came to redeem 
Alse Whitehill, for whom her uncle and step- 
father had offered a large ransom ; and now at 
last Alse hoped that her captivity was over; but 
Philip rejected with scorn all offers, and sent a 
discourteous and haughty message to the Gov- 
ernor and Council, to the effect that the white 
men had not money enough in the whole colony 
of Massachusetts to buy one hair of the white 
child’s head, and when the messenger went away, 
he sent for Alse, telling her that she was now to 
be adopted into their tribe, and be as one of 
themselves. 


CHAPTER X. 


BALKED BY THE ENEMY. 

HEN Alse’s mother reached the garrison 



on that fatal morning, and found her 


child not there before her, she would willingly 
have gone forth again to look for her; but the 
doors were barred, and none permitted to go out. 
Like a crazy thing she walked up and down, up 
and down, among the people, begging them to 
let her go to her child’s rescue. In vain her 
husband and her sons sought to make her see 
the uselessness of such an attempt, and to quiet 
her, for their words seemed to bear no more 
meaning to her poor brain than if they been 
spoken in an unknown tongue. 

Enough has been said : the torture of a mother 
whose child is in the hands of a barbarous enemy 
is what no pen can write. 


BALKED BY THE ENEMY. 


107 


When the Indians had left the town, and the 
people all went forth again, such lamentation as 
there was at the waste and destruction that met 
their anxious eyes ! Nearly half of the buildings 
were destroyed ; but the house of Master Marsden, 
though situated at the west end of the town 
where the greatest damage had been done, was 
unharmed, and as Ralph and Enoch led their 
mother thither, it wore its usual air of peaceful 
comfort, even Alse’s dove was cooing on its perch 
in the lilacs. The dove’s notes seemed such a 
mockery of the agony of her own heart, that the 
poor mother fell to weeping again. 

Fortunate it was for her that she could not 
occupy her mind solely with her own troubles, for 
there were the wounded to be nursed, and the 
homeless to be provided for. 

Having left their mother within the house, 
Ralph and Enoch went into the town. They 
were eager to find the soldiery, and to see why 
they did not push on after the enemy. 

“ There is no more now to be said,” cried 


io8 


WANOLASSET. 


Ralph. “ I shall join the troops and search for 
our dear Alse.” 

“ Nay,” answered Enoch, “ remember that thy 
mother has already lost one child. She can ill 
bear to lose another.” 

“ ’T was she herself did bid me go and bring 
my sister home.” 

“Yes; but as thee knows well, she was beside 
herself with grief, and knew not what she said.” 

Hurrying on, the two lads came upon the sol- 
diers, who had stopped at the river, balked by the 
burned bridges. One of them had taken from a 
post this notice : — 

“ Know by this paper that the Indians that thou hast 
provoked to wrath and anger will war these 2 1 years if 
you will. There are many Indians yett. We come three 
hundred at this time. You must consider that the 
Indians lose nothing but their lives. You must lose 
your fair houses and cattle.” 

“ Why do you not follow the insolent savages 
and punish them ? ” cried Ralph, to one of the sol- 
diers. “ There was big talk awhile ago that a 


BALKED BY THE ENEMY. IO9 

white man is equal to fifteen Indians. By my life, 
it doth not this day so appear.” 

“ Ay, but they have always some advantage 
over us — the crafty heathen. See now how hin- 
dered we be ! ” 

“ Hindered Mercy on us, the Indians would 
have crossed the river on rafts, while ye have 
hemmed and hawed over it Yes, I ’d sooner 
swim over to the other bank than be so defied 
and mocked and beaten by a party of savages.” 

“ The boy is hot for revenge,” said the soldier 
to another as Ralph walked on ; “ and why not, 
since his sister has been carried off by the vile 
fiends ? ” 

The town was still under some apprehension, 
and sent to the Governor again for help. The 
following day Captain Turner with sixty-four men 
reached Medfield. Among the soldiers was one 
very ill, and. Master Wilson’s house being full, he 
was brought to Master Marsden’s. 

Hardly was the man in bed before Ralph was 
dressed in his clothes, and presented himself to 


I lO 


WANOLASSET. 


Captain Turner with the petition to be allowed to 
take the sick man’s place. 

There was no time to waste, and the boy was 
enrolled. In a few hours he had taken leave of 
his mother, and, with the sanction of his stepfather, 
joined the troops. 

“ Thou wilt take care of our mother,” he said to 
Enoch, who went with him to the camp, “ for thou 
art a dear true brother ; and do not fret because 
’tis I, instead of you, who go to our sister’s 
rescue.” 

“No; I shall not fret because of that,” said 
Enoch, with a quiet smile. 

“ ’T is thy task, being of a gentler mould than 
I, since our father is growing old, to look after 
the affairs of our home, and, above all, to keep 
our mother in as cheerful spirits as may be.” 

“ Why, now, ’t is beyond the power of any of 
us to do much for her in that sort,” answered 
Enoch. “ Her thoughts are in the wilderness 
with our dear pigeon, and no word reaches her. 
Have you not noticed, Ralph, how she answers 


BALKED BY THE ENEMY. 


I 1 1 


US at random? The dear mother! Yea, I am 
greatly troubled for her, and I need no bidding 
to do what I can for her welfare. In the bygone 
years, Ralph, many a night when thou hast been 
sleeping soundly by my side, I have prayed with 
tears for a chance to serve her, not only out of 
mere love, but in gratitude for the kindness and 
great and wonderful affection which she has 
ever shown me. Never can I forget how once 
she gave Alse to me for a sister. Oh, Ralph, if 
I could now but bring Alse back to her, would 
not that be a joyful way of showing the love and 
loyalty I feel for thy mother ? ” 

“ Yes, Enoch ; but ’t is a deed not in thy mood. 
Think no more of it. But keep a stout heart, 
for we shall find Alse.” 


CHAPTER XL 


A DISTRACTED MIND. 

T^T’HEN, having parted with Ralph, Enoch 
^ ^ went home, he found his mother on her 
knees before the oaken chest in the kitchen, 
seeking among her store for linen to give to those 
whose supply had been burned with their dwel- 
lings. She was hindered in her task by the 
blinding tears that streamed continually from her 
eyes. Coming to the flowered silk, she took it 
gently out, and stroked the inanimate thing as if 
the form of her child were still beneath it. So 
piteous she looked that, stooping down by the 
chest, Enoch put his arm around her, and he also 
stroked the silk, while they looked at each other 
with the same thought, — that of the child’s 
beauty and happiness as she stood in the fire- 
light with the rich-tinted silk gathered about 
her. 


A DISTRACTED MIND. 


II3 

“ She was ever fond of a bright color,” said 
Mistress Marsden, softly ; “ but not too fond, eh, 
Enoch, lad ? Thou wouldst not say that she was 
over-fond of vanities ? ” 

She asked the question eagerly, as if troubled 
by some secret fear. 

“No, that I would not,” answered Enoch, with 
decision. 

“ I have feared lest her beauty be a snare to 
the child,” said the mother. 

“ She has too much heart and good wit for 
• that, mother. She is no vain shallop, and cares 
not for her little braveries over and beyond the 
pleasure she takes in their pretty colors and 
shapes, and thinks not what a fair witch she 
looks in them. I well remember a certain hood 
she once had. ’T was sent to her, as I think, by 
her relatives in Boston.” 

“ Yes, a silk hood it was, of a sweet color. The 
selectmen of the town took notice of the hood, it 
being of silk, and so against the law for persons 

of ordinary condition ; but ’t was at last decided 
8 


WANOLASSET. 


II4 

that our family, being of a better education and 
estate than the most, was among those for whom 
exception is made by the law, and so thy sister 
wore the hood, though but a few times ; for thy 
father, as thee knows, does not favor any extrava- 
gance in clothes.” 

“Well, mother dear,” Enoch went on, eager 
to draw her mind from her trouble, and rejoiced 
that she could listen and speak in so rational a 
way, “ I remember one day when you took Alse 
with you to Master Wilson’s house. Some great 
occasion it was, though I forget now what, and 
she wore the hood. As she came thence I fell in 
with her, and on my life she was a fair sight, 
with her eyes so soft and dark, and her cheek 
like the damask rose ; and so dazzled I was that 
I forgot your wish and said, — 

“ ‘ There is no face in the town that would not 
be ugly by the side of thine.’ Nay, do not blame 
me, mother. ’T was not flattery, for the words 
flew out like a bird. And now what think ye 
Alse did, but draw a hideous face in return for 
my fair speech. 


A DISTRACTED MIND. 


II5 

“‘’Tis the silk hood,’ said she, ‘’t would make 
the ugliest face look well. And thou art but a 
bat, brother, else thou wouldst see that the most 
beautiful face in the town is that of our mother. 
It irks me that she doth go about clad in such 
dull apparel. Could I have my way, ’t is she and 
not I that would wear all the finery that my uncle 
sends. Yet since she hath no will to wear them, 
see you,’ she said, with a toss of her head, ‘ they 
shall not go a-begging.’ As for Alse’s beauty, 
which of a truth no one can resist, maybe, mother 
dear, ’twill serve her a good turn even among 
the savages.” 

“You say that but to comfort me; for what 
avails the loveliest grace to one in the power 
of a vile savage ? Oh, Enoch, mine is the sorrow 
which a mother cannot bear and live.” 

The next day another affliction fell upon the 
Marsden house, for a strange illness came upon 
the mistress of it, defying the skill of the surgeon, 
and putting the family and attendants to their 
wits’ end to alleviate her suffering. For it was 


WANOLASSET. 


I l6 

the poor mind that ailed, and she that was so 
gentle and loving by nature became peevish or 
violent, blaming this one or that for her affliction. 

Sometimes it was Ralph, who she declared 
cared for naught but the excitement of a soldier’s 
life, and had no thought for his sister. Again, 
’t would be herself she blamed for sending Alse 
on before her that fatal morning to the garrison. 
But more often, and with bitterest anger, it was 
Enoch whom she reproached for delaying them 
with his entreaties that they would remain in 
their own house, rather than trust themselves in 
the town. And then, when he would prove to 
her that his advice had been good, she would rail 
at him for having been a friend of the treacherous 
enemy, so that, as ’twas said, their house was 
spared because of the amity the Indians had for 
him. And though Enoch knew it was her poor 
distraught mind that was answerable for her anger, 
and that when she would be her true self again 
she would blame him for nothing, each speech 
cut him like a knife. 


A DISTRACTED MIND. 


II7 

One day the surgeon coming in while she was 
railing at Enoch, he sent him forthwith out of 
her room, saying that he but made her the worse ; 
and this the poor boy thought was the bitterest 
word yet. Still, though the thought that his 
presence injured his dear mother was truly griev- 
ous, it was a relief in one way, as it helped him to 
decide on a matter that had long been in his 
mind, and very shortly he told the surgeon that, as 
he could do nothing for his mother, he should go, 
as he had always wished to do, in pursuit of Alse. 

“ How now ! ” cried the surgeon, aghast, as he 
well might be, at this plan, “ is our cause in such 
straits that it must have the help of boys ? Al- 
ready is there a force of many thousand men in 
the field.” 

“ I go upon my own adventure, and not with 
the soldiery,” said Enoch. 

“ Think not twice of such a bold thing. Why, 
boy, ’t is but to throw your life away, and truly, if 
you do not promise me forthwith to give up the 
plan, I musUdiscover it to Master Marsden.” 


ii8 


WANOLASSET. 


“ Already have I obtained his consent,” said 
Enoch. “ I have told you of my intention only 
that you can use the knowledge of it for my 
mother’s good. I doubt not the hearing of it will 
please her well. As for my safety,” Enoch went 
on, “ she will not be concerned about that, for, as 
you know, she can think of but the one thing. 
Never once, to my knowledge, hath she grieved 
for the hazard Ralph runs in this war. Then 
will she not be concerned for me. And, on my 
word, I have no fear for myself.” 

“ What is your plan, boy ? ” asked the surgeon, 
seeing that he was foiled in his purpose to hinder 
him from attempting this adventure. 

“’Tis not in ready shape to lay before you,” 
was the adroit reply, for, knowing that it would 
only meet with discouragement and derision, 
Enoch had no intention of submitting his plan to 
any one. 

Thinking that Enoch was not yet ready to set 
out, the surgeon, who had work enough on his 
hands at that time, no doubt, gave no more 


A DISTRACTED MIND. I IQ 

thought to the matter, and the next day he was 
horrified to hear that the boy was already on his 
way. 

In regard to his mother, it fell out exactly as 
Enoch predicted, and the knowledge that he was 
in search of Alse served much to comfort her. 

“ A clever lad he is, and a marvellous charm he 
hath over the Indians, that I have long known,” 
she would say, and perchance add tenderly, — 

“ He was always the dearest, lovingest boy a 
woman ever sought to be a mother to,” which 
speech, could he but have heard it, would have 
mightily encouraged the poor fellow as he set 
forth on his dubious search. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A BOLD DESIGN. 

I T was a cloudy morning toward the end of 
winter when Enoch started upon his bold 
adventure. The sun would not give countenance 
to it, and the wind opposed it with all its might. 
The thorny vines clung to him, and the bushes 
spitefully choked the way. 

For the prosecution of his plan, Enoch had 
first to secure the service of some trusty Indian. 
Many such he knew among those who were for- 
merly at Natick, but now trouble had fallen 
upon this people, who had been forced to leave 
their town, their comfortable wigwams, and all 
their possessions, and had been conveyed to Deer 
Island till the war should be over. This sorry 
measure was forced upon the magistrates by the 
clamor of the people, whose anger was stirred 


A BOLD DESIGN. 


I2I 


against them by the atrocities practised by the 
hostile tribes, and by the perfidy of many who 
professed themselves friendly, only to betray the 
English when a fair op- 
portunity presented itself. 

Such instances of infi- 
delity, however, usually 
occurred among the new 
converts. 

At the beginning of 
the war, a number of the 
Christian Indians were 
made use of in the Eng- 
lish army, acquitting 
themselves as “ honest 
and stout men,” for which 
we have the word of the 
officers under whom they served. They were also 
used as spies and guides, and there is no in- 
stance recorded where they proved treacherous. 
But so great was the prejudice of the common 
people toward them, that the Governor and 



122 


WANOLASSET. 


Council were forced to disband them, after which 
they were confined in their own villages, and 
afterward imprisoned on the islands in the har- 
bor. To illustrate the rancor of the white men, 
it is told by Gookin, that after the massacre at 
Medfield, when, by reason of the burned bridges, 
they were not able to come at the enemy who 
perpetrated the foul outrage, there was a plot on 
foot among some of the English, to go down to 
Deer Island and kill, in revenge, these innocent 
praying Indians. 

Beside the company at Natick, Enoch also had 
friends among the Hassanamesit or Marlborough 
Indians. This people had suffered much from 
misapprehension. Fifteen of them, on a false 
charge, had been chained together, neck to neck, 
and taken in this sort to trial in Boston, where 
eleven of them remained in prison for some weeks 
under great suffering. In the November of 1675, 
the hostile Indians fell upon these at Hassana- 
mesit who were gathering their corn into barns. 
As the enemy counted three hundred and them- 


A BOLD DESIGN. 


123 


selves but one hundred and fifty, and as they (as 
all other friendly tribes) had been forced to give 
up the arms and ammunition that at the begin- 
ning of the war had been furnished them for their 
defence against the common enemy, they yielded 
to arguments of their captors which could not be 
denied. For it is true that whenever a stack of 
hay or an out-building was burned, they were 
suspected and punished by the English, and the 
remembrance of what some of their number had 
already suffered, and the chance that they might 
be imprisoned as the Natick Indians were, or even 
sold out of the country as slaves, determined 
them to cast their lot with their own race. “ And 
perhaps,” as their historian quaintly says, “if 
Englishmen and good Christians, too, had been 
in their case, and under like temptations, possibly 
they might have done the same.” 

The case of these poor souls is best put in the 
words of their pastor, Joseph Tuckapanellen, to 
Mr. Eliot. 

“ Oh, sir, I am greatly distressed this day on 


124 


WANOLASSET. 


every side ; the English have taken away some 
of my estate, my corn, cattle, my plough, cart, 
chain, and other goods. The enemy Indians 
have also taken a part of what I had ; and the 
wicked Indians mock and scoff at me, saying : 
‘ Now what is become of your praying to 
God ? ’ The English also censure me and say 
I am a hypocrite.” 

It happened that about this time there was 
much discussion in the General Council concern- 
ing the imprisoned Indians on Deer Island, some 
contending that they should all be destroyed, and 
others that they should be sent out of the coun- 
try ; but there were also milder measures advo- 
cated, for it was remembered by some that they 
had a covenant with the English for mutual 
protection. By that agreement they put them- 
selves under the government of Massachusetts, 
promising to be true and faithful subjects. Upon 
searching the records, not one case could be 
found in which they had broken any part of it, 
so that instead of carrying out the harsh meas- 


A BOLD DESIGN. 


125 


ures of the more prejudiced party, the General 
Court decided to make use of some of them as 
guides, which accorded well with their desire to 
show their loyalty. 

Accordingly, six were chosen for this part, fitted 
with arms, and taken to Marlborough, where Major 
Savage, with a force of six hundred men, was 
encamped. 

Having heard of these things, Enoch set out 
in the direction of Marlborough. It was a long 
distance from Medfield to this place, and there 
was danger of meeting bands of the savages, who 
might be lurking in the forest, ready to fall upon 
any wayfarer. He reached his destination, how- 
ever, without adventure of this sorry sort. 

It was on the edge of night that he first came 
in sight of the town that had been the scene of 
so much carnage and strife. A rude house on 
the outskirts of the town which, owing to its 
defenceless position, was abandoned in the be- 
ginning of the war, offered itself as a shelter; and 
Enoch, too weary to go farther that night, joy- 


126 


WANOLASSET. 


fully availed himself of it. He was hungry, hav- 
ing early in the day eaten the last of the provi- 
sions he had brought with him ; but he was too 
tired to look for food, and, lying down on some 
pine-branches that had probably served some 
former wayfarer in like manner, he fell asleep, 
and so soundly that on wakening he gazed long 
about the strange, bare room before he could 
remember how he came there. 

He was conscious of two things, a murmuring 
noise, on the outside of his habitation, and the 
voice of hunger that called him imperatively to 
get up and secure a breakfast. 

Enoch therefore raised himself upon the pine- 
boughs, with an effort to realize his situation. 
At that moment the murmuring noise came near 
enough to be recognized as the human voice, 
and by the time the boy had hidden himself 
under the boughs, two men came into the 
house. 

One, by his uniform, was evidently an English 
officer, — a stout, purple-faced, choleric personage, 


A BOLD DESIGN. 


127 


who walked up and down with his hands behind 
him, while, in a gruff English voice, he said, — 

“ A sorry set o’ magistrates have we, by my 
faith. With such a set of tender consciences 
’t will be many a long day before we get the 
better of the savages. Yea, the worthy gentle- 
men occupy themselves in mousing over the 
records for a warrant for putting the pray- 
ing Indians out of harm’s way, when every day of 
the Lord have they thrown warrant enough in 
our faces. Now, after the onslaught on Medfield 
and Lancaster, comes news of Sudbury. Ver- 
ily,” he added, in a tone of grim humor, 
“ ’t is time that another law should be passed, 
touching the sort of apparel our women should 
wear.” 

“ I am of your mind in this matter. Captain,” 
interrupted the second man, who had listened 
with impatience to this harangue ; “ yet ’t was not 
for this bluster I brought you hither, but to con- 
fer with you on what touches us more closely. 
I mean of the liberty that hath been given to Job 


128 


WANOLASSET. 


Kattenanit by the Council, to meet with those 
Indians at Hassanamesit.” 

“ How is that ? I have heard naught of it,” said 
the first speaker, in so bitter a voice that Enoch 
rejoiced that he had not acted on his first impulse 
to discover himself to these men, who he now saw 
would not aid nor abet him in a project that in- 
cluded the employment of a friendly Indian. 

“ Why, now, this Job Kattenanit, it appears, was 
the Indian who, with the squaws and children, 
escaped from the hands of the hostile savages 
that fell upon Hassanamesit, and ever since he 
hath made hue and cry to recover his children, 
whom Philip’s men took away with them. Well, 
then, it appears that while on service as spy at 
Mt. Wachusett, he made an agreement with some 
of the Christian Indians among the enemy to 
meet them at a certain place where they would 
bring, with other English captives, the three chil- 
dren of Job; and now he hath the consent of 
Major Savage and Major-General Dennison to 
go and fetch them.” 


A BOLD DESIGN. 


129 


“ ’ T is of a piece with all the rest,” said he who 
was addressed as Captain, and who was, in truth, 
the rough old privateersman and Indian hater, 
Mosely, who is said never to have been worsted 
in any engagement with the enemy. “ But I ’ll 
undo this work, or I ’ll serve the country no more. 
Come ye, it behooves us not to dilly-dally here.” 

“ But already hath Job set forth,” said the Cap- 
tain’s companion. “ ’T is late in the day now to 
stop the business.” 

“ Nay, ’t is not too late, if one hath any heart in 
the matter, as I mean to prove to ye ; only we 
must lose no time in pursuing the rogue, who, no 
doubt, means to furnish information against us to 
Philip.” 

Immediately, as the two men left the house, 
Enoch sprang to his feet, with the hope that if he 
could but join Job, and warn him of the intended 
pursuit, they could succeed in reaching the spot 
where he was to meet his friends, and from them 
he could perhaps discover the whereabouts of 
Alse. 


9 


130 


WANOLASSET. 


Enoch judged that with full liberty from the 
Council, and the permission of those in command 
at Marlborough, Job would not feel the need of 
great haste ; and he counted upon his own fleet- 
ness to overtake him before the soldiers should 
have gone far in pursuit. Yet since man is but 
an engine whose progress depends upon the fuel 
it burns, he must stop for a fresh supply of food. 

Having proceeded but a few steps toward the 
town, he saw coming toward him a party of five 
Indians. As they went openly, he knew they 
must be those who, with Job, had been sent to 
serve as guides. Among them were two Natick 
Indians, well known to him, and who greeted him 
with a joyful confidence that proved how rarely 
they found a real friend among the white men. 

They would have him sit down and listen, 
while they narrated all the trouble which they 
had passed through ; but, though not lacking in 
sympathy, Enoch must refuse them this poor 
consolation. 

Having heard the strait he was in, they set 


A BOLD DESIGN. 


I3I 

about helping him according to their means. 
Each had a day’s allowance of provisions ; for on 
reaching Marlborough, though they had come 
but to do the townspeople service, they were re- 
ceived with such insults by them that they would 
not go within any house, but ate and slept in the 
outer air. Of this allowance of food they gave 
Enoch enough to last for two days’ journey. 
They then showed him in which direction Job 
had started for the meeting-place. 

This adventure saved Enoch much time ; and 
as he started upon the right track and went 
quickly, he overtook Job upon the evening of the 
same day. Between the danger of surprise by 
Philip’s Indians and the danger of meeting suspi- 
cious English, Job was travelling cautiously; but, 
recognizing Enoch, he welcomed him with joy, 
and, having been acquainted with his errand, the 
two proceeded cheerfully together. 

This journey, however, proved fruitless for 
each ; for, having arrived at the meeting-place, they 
failed to find Job’s friends. They would gladly 


132 


WANOLASSET. 


have pushed on nearer the enemy’s quarters ; but 
Job thought that he was bound to return to the 
English army, and, remembering the suspicions of 
Mosely, and how ready the English were to sus- 
pect treachery in an Indian, Enoch forbore to 
press his own wish, and so, greatly disappointed, 
they turned back to Marlborough. 

They nearly reached the town without meet- 
ing any of the men Mosely had sent out to cap- 
ture Job; but when within a few miles of the 
camp they came face to face with an English 
soldier. Enoch at once recognized the soldier as 
his own brother. 

“ And how, by all that’s odd, dost thou come 
here ? ” cried Ralph, as the two joined hands ; while 
Job, conscious of no fault, stood quietly watching 
the meeting. 

“Surely you can guess the only errand that 
would bring me hither,” answered Enoch. 

“ Dost mean ^/lou art in search of our sister } ” 
asked Ralph, with perhaps an unconscious em- 
phasis on the pronoun that was neither compli- 


A BOLD DESIGN. 


133 


mentary nor encouraging. “ ’T is foolishness, for 
thou art too soft of heart to succeed in this busi- 
ness and so should leave it to me. .Tell me, what 
hast thou gained } ” 

“ I have gained nothing — as yet. Mayhap 
thou art right and I should have left the business 
to thee, who art so much more able. Then tell 
me quickly, brother, what hast ^/lou gained ? 
Where is our sweet pigeon ? Is she already in 
thy keeping ? What hast thou gained ? ” 

“Well, nothing at all,” admitted Ralph, with a 
slight blush. “Yet we have hope of success 
through the efforts of Mr. Rowlandson, whose 
wife and children were taken captive at Lancaster, 
and who hath petitioned the Council to send a 
messenger, who is already on the way to treat 
with the savages about redeeming the captives. 
Mr. Rowlandson hath offered twenty pounds for 
the redemption of his wife, and our father and 
uncle together have offered the same for Alse. 
’T is thought that now, being hard pushed, the 
Indians will agree to the terms. So thou seest a 


134 


WANOLASSET. 


better plan than can grow in thy head is made for 
Alse’s help.” 

Enoch could easily have retorted that Ralph 
had no more part than himself in this plan, but 
he answered with perfect sweetness, — 

“ I care not whose be the plan so ’t is for Alse’s 
safety and our mother’s life as ’t were. But, 
verily, though I have gained naught, I feel none 
the worse for making a trial. But hold, brother ! 
What are you doing ? ” 

For, with a sudden recollection of his duty, 
Ralph had stepped up to Job to secure him. 

“ What are you doing ? ” Enoch repeated more 
sharply. 

“ Canst thou not see for thyself ? ” was the 
short answer. 

“ Thou art over-hasty, Ralph. Job is even now 
coming into the camp.” 

“ Well, ’t is mistrusted that if he be left at large, 
he will furnish information of our plans to the 
Indians.” 

“ Not so,” cried Enoch, eagerly; “ he is trusty. 
I ’ll answer for it.” 


A BOLD DESIGN. 1 35 

“He is a rash fellow who will answer for an 
Indian,” said Ralph, laughing. “ Nay, Enoch, do 
not interfere, for ’t is but my duty as a soldier.” 

“ There are duties no less binding upon you 
than those that belong to a soldier. Hath justice 
and gratitude no claim upon you ? ’T is not the 
fault of this man that I have not succeeded in 
bringing Alse out of the enemy’s hands. Would 
you repay him for his service to us by a deed like 
this ? A dolt, ’t would seem, could see the folly 
of capturing a man so innocent of harm, deliver- 
ing himself up of his own accord, withal.” 

“ Well, then,” said Ralph, unhanding Job, “he 
shall walk on before us ; but you shall go with him 
clear into the town to see that he doth not make 
his escape. As for me, I will come later, for, by 
my faith, I ’ll not show myself there as the friend 
of an Indian.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


BY HIS OWN WIT. 

H oping that Alse’s deliverance was now to 
be accomplished irrespective of his efforts, 
Enoch was undecided what his own course should 
be, but until the event was certain, he would not 
return to Medfield. 

The messenger who had been sent from the 
Council at Boston to treat with the enemy about 
the captives, returned with an unsatisfactory an- 
swer. Then he was sent a second time with 
Peter Conway, another Christian Indian, and after 
much parley the release of Mrs. Rowlandson and 
some other captives was effected ; but Alse White- 
hill was not among them. 

When for the third time they journeyed 
toward Wachusett, they were met by Enoch. 
His heart was heavy, for he had been given no 
encouragement to hope for Alse’s return, as she 


BY HIS OWN WIT. 


137 


belonged, not to the more conciliatory Nipmucks, 
but to Philip’s company. When the other saga- 
mores met in council to consider whether or not 
they would return the captives, it was said that 
he had refused to join them, and angrily declined 
to make any concession to his foe. 

Nepanet and Peter assured Enoch that never 
would Alse be permitted to return to her own 
people, and they added that the enemy Indians 
had declared that she cared no more for the 
English. 

Among the English captives there were those 
who refused to go home to their friends, and by 
choice lived for the remainder of their lives with 
the savages; but Alse, as Enoch well knew, was 
not of this sort. 

“ ’T is a lie,” he said. “ Did they not say, to 
harry us, that Mrs. Rowlandson had married 
Monaco, the one-eyed chief who sacked Med- 
field ? Nay, friends, say no more of that, but 
if on the last venture they will not let the child 
go, find some Indian among them who knows 


1 38 WANOLASSET. 

me, and speak secretly with him, asking if he 
will do me a service. And if he be willing, I 
will meet him at such a place as he will describe 
to you. Tell him to make it plain where the 
place is, and I will be there.” 

The messengers on this third trial had a yet 
larger ransom to offer Philip, and they carried a 
great store of tobacco and other goods, as con- 
ciliatory offerings, but they returned with only' 
an insolent answer for Alse’s friends. 

“ I have now but my own wits to trust to,” 
said Enoch, when told by the two Indians of the 
result of the treaty. 

“You are to go to the great rocks beyond 
Quaboge, where you will find a hiding-place in 
the cedars,” answered the Indians. “ ’T is twelve 
miles to the northward. Go with haste or you 
cannot be there at the time set, which is when 
the sun is high overhead after this night and 
one day’s journey.” 

Enoch was not long in setting out. Remem- 
bering the fruitless adventure he had made with 


BY HIS OWN WIT. 1 39 

Job, he trembled lest he should find no one to 
meet him, and Nepanet had neglected to tell the 
name of the friendly Indian who had professed 
himself willing to help him. With much uneasi- 
ness, therefore, having reached the designated 
spot, he concealed himself in the cave and waited. 



The entrance was hidden by the cedars, but 
through the scraggy branches he could look 
forth into the forest beyond ; and soon he dis- 
tinctly saw a tawny figure coming quickly toward 
him. 

In a moment more he sprang out of the cave 
crying joyfully, — 


140 


WANOLASSET. 


“ Awashamog ! ” 

Yet his joy was instantly clouded, and he said 
sadly, — 

“Yet am I sorry to see thee, for now I know 
you have not been faithful to the English. 
Awashamog, thou hast joined the heathen.” 

“Yes,” answered Awashamog, with flashing 
eyes, “ I have joined Philip’s men. My friendship 
I give in exchange for friendship. When Philip 
first made war on the white men, we did ear- 
nestly desire to show our affection for them and 
for their religion. We were their friends, but 
they mistrusted and abused us. I would not, 
like the others, be shut up on an island like 
cattle. I could not forget that my squaw died 
for want of food, and that my boy was killed for 
being outside our town. Yes, I joined the 
heathen Indians.” 

“You have had cause to hate the English,” 
said Enoch, “ yet a poor canoe will sail well on 
smooth water. ’T is the rough water that proves 
its worth. I, too, have suffered. Our sister has 


BY HIS OWN WIT. 


I4I 

been taken captive by Philip’s men. My mother 
is distraught by reason of her sorrow, our home is 
broken, all is changed. Yet I come here among 
your people without so much as a knife with 
which to defend myself. I disclose myself to 
those of you I have always trusted, not heeding 
that some have gone over to our enemy.” 

“ If any one harms thee, I will kill him,” cried 
Awashamog. 

“ I have come hither to find my sister,” said 
Enoch, answering Awashamog’s warm glance 
with one as kind. “ They say she is with Philip’s 
company.” 

“Yes; she was bought for a knife by Philip’s 
son. They treat her well. Do not fear.” 

“ I must find her, Awashamog, and this is my 
plan. When you go back to Wachusett, I will 
go with you, and you must pretend to have taken 
me captive. Then we will devise some way of 
carrying Alse off. You will help me, is it 
not so ? ” 

The Indian sat motionless for a moment. His 


142 


WANOLASSET. 


gaunt figure and drawn face told of the suffering 
he had undergone, but it also expressed the power 
of his endurance and an iron will. He knew 
what the cost of such a promise as Enoch exacted 
of him must be. 

A chance there was in this desperate venture, 
for the escape of Enoch and Alse, but the anger 
of Philip would follow the faithless Indian to his 
death. Nevertheless he answered calmly, — 

“ Thou shalt prove my friendship now on the 
rough water.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


HER LITTLE MASTER. 

O NE morning Alse’s little master found her 
weeping. 

It was spring in the wilderness, a feathery- 
green world under a soft sky. The birds were 
singing in the bushes, and from the swamp came 
the song of the hylas, rejoicing in the balmy 
weather. It was spring everywhere but in Alse’s 
heart. 

Her little master sat down by her side. 

“ Why do you cry ? ” he asked, frowning. “ I tell 
you to laugh.” 

“ I cannot,” said Alse. “ Could you laugh if 
you were a prisoner away from all those you 
love ? ” 

“ What ! do you love the English still ? ” asked 
Metacumsett. 


144 


WANOLASSET. 


“Yes, always,” answered Alse. 

“ I tell you no,” cried the little savage, still 
more angrily, “for now you are all Indian, same 
as I am Indian. The white blood has been 
washed away.” 

In adopting white captives into a tribe, the cus- 
tom was to wash them in the river, when it was 
said that all white blood was washed away; and 
this custom had been observed in Alse’s case. 
She had undergone the process with silent con- 
tempt, but now in her bitterness she said, — 

“ I am still an English girl, and my white blood 
could not be washed away by all the water in the 
river. I shall never be an Indian like you.” 

In proof of what she said, Alse pushed up her 
sleeve, showing the smooth white arm of an Eng- 
lish child. 

“ Hold yours beside it,” she said. 

The boy obeyed, and could but see the contrast 
between his own tawniness and the fair skin of 
his companion. It so angered him that he used 
his power as he had never done before ; he raised 


HER LITTLE MASTER. 1 45 

his hand and struck her. Then, wild with rage, 
he tore away through the wilderness. 

Alse now fell to thinking what a life lay before 
her. To live always with these squalid and brutal 
savages, exposed to the caprices of the arrogant 
temper of her master, and away from those she 
loved. The horror and the homesickness she 
suffered were greater than she had borne in all 
her captivity. Perhaps, in time, she herself might 
become as the savages, which thought is perhaps 
the bitterest of all those that distress a poor cap- 
tive in savage hands. Could it be possible, she 
asked herself, that she would ever forget those 
dear home-faces that belonged to the happy past } 
One by one she recalled them, — the tender beauty 
of her mother, the frank brave countenance of 
Ralph, the gentle richness of Enoch’s face. So 
real to her seemed the last, framed by green 
leaves and casting looks of pity and love upon 
her, that her heart beat violently ; and as she 
leaned forward to look more intently, the lips 

parted and she believed herself listening to his 
10 


146 


WANOLASSET. 


very voice. Enoch’s voice had ever had a tender 
inflection when he spoke to her that marked it 
from all others. 

“ Be not afraid, Alse ; ’t is Enoch. Didst 
think I would never come ? ” The voice broke 
with pity. “Nay, dearest, ’t is no dream; ’t is 
Enoch at last.” 

Yes, it was really Enoch, for she was in his arms 
and he was wiping the tears from her eyes. 

“ Are you also a captive ? ” she asked. 

“ I feign to be,” said Enoch, smiling ; “ but I am 
come with Awashamog, who is to help us make 
our escape. Nay, little one, nay, dear little sister, 
do not cry, for so thou wilt break my heart. 
Smile once on me as your own merry self, if only 
as a welcome.” 

“Yes, for thee I will smile,” answered Alse, 
bravely ; but she could not yet trust herself to 
look into his pitying eyes, but smiled vaguely out 
on the great wilderness. 

“ That is right,” said Enoch, watching her ; but 
he forbore to criticise the unsuccessful smile. 


HER LITTLE MASTER. 


147 


“ A washamog did not counsel my discovering my- 
self to you till all our plans are made. He feared 
by your happiness you would betray us to the 
Indians ; but when I saw you grieving so, I could 
not forbear giving you the comfort I might. Be- 
side, with all our care you might see me and 
recognize me openly. ’T is therefore safer so, 
but you must play your part well. Be cautious. 
Show neither joy nor grief, nor let the Indians 
suspect that I am aught to you.” 

Following the dictates of prudence, Enoch 
would now have stolen away, but he could not 
withstand Alse’s entreaties to give her yet a 
moment more and a moment more, till perhaps a 
half-hour had passed. 

Although the son of Philip, and with much of 
his father’s arrogance and love of power, Alse’s 
little master, be it remembered, was also the grand- 
son of good old Massasoit, who had welcomed the 
Pilgrims at Plymouth and of whom no treachery 
or any vindictive act has been recorded. This 
little grandson, belike, inherited some of Massa- 


148 


WANOLASSET. 


soit’s amiable qualities ; at all events, that he had a 
loving nature Alse Whitehill had good reason to 
know. 

Yet she could not know, as he fled from her, 
how much wounded love and pride was mingled 
with his anger. At first he believed that he 
would never care again for the girl who boasted 
of her white blood and her unlikeness to him. 
But his mood quickly changed, and then he re- 
gretted that he had struck her, and longed to 
make amends. Seeking his mother, he begged 
her for some samp cooked in bear’s grease, which 
he put in his own wooden bowl, and he took a 
brace of eagle feathers with which he was wont 
to adorn himself like a brave chief, and a neck- 
lace of wampum from his own neck, and with 
these offerings he went back to the nook among 
the trees and bushes where he had left Alse. 

Metacumsett went as silently as a boat glides 
over the water, or as a cloud moves over the blue 
sky. It is the way of his race, for the Indian is 
strong and lithe and light of foot. Suddenly, 


HER LITTLE MASTER. 


149 


however, he stopped short, for he heard a voice 
that had not the sweet music of the voice of 
“ The-little-one-that-laughs.” 

Then he hid his peace-offerings in the bushes, 
and, falling to the ground, slipped along snake- 
wise until he could look between the leaves to 
the spot where Alse sat in Enoch’s arms. 

When he saw this, a great pain rose in his 
throat, and, flinging out the brown arms at which 
Alse had mocked, he groaned. 

“ She is white to the heart. She will never be 
good Indian.” 



CHAPTER XV. 


ON THE MARCH. 


HERE was a great bitterness between the 



JL Wampanoags and Nipmuck Indians be- 
cause of the captives that had been released, and 
it was this division that broke Philip’s strength. 
He now left the Nipmuck country, and with his 
allies, the Narragansetts, started for his old quar- 
ters at Mt. Hope, where in his anger and arro- 
gance he had begun his war with the white men. 
A weary hungry horde, they set forth on the 
march. 

Ever since that day he had seen Alse with 
Enoch, Metacumsett had watched her constantly. 
Although it was more in the way of friendly care 
than as a master, it could but annoy Alse, know- 
ing that at any time Enoch or Awashamog might 
wish speech with her. 

Sometimes he would say in a wistful tone : — 


ON THE MARCH. 


I5I 

“Soon you will love Indians; ” and Alse, grate- 
ful to him for having saved her from that cruel 
savage who had first owned her, and forgetful of 
the blow which he had given her in his anger, 
would always answer with a smile, — 

“One Indian do I already love.” 

But an Indian never forgets, and Metacumsett 
had seen the look she had given that white cap- 
tive. He saw also that Alse entered but listlessly 
into the games in which formerly she had joined 
with eagerness, and so he watched her and waited. 

Meantime, because of this constant guardian- 
ship, the danger of Enoch’s plan was increased 
a thousand fold. 

“ ’T is only when Metacumsett’s eyes are closed 
in sleep that they are not upon Alse,” said he. 
“ By my faith, we must then capture the two 
together. What do you think of it, Awashamog ? ” 

“ A pappoose plan,” answered Awashamog, 
scornfully, “ unless you mean to knock Philip’s 
son on the head.” 

“No, no, Awashamog, ’t is not that I meant; 


152 


WANOLASSET. 


but I see ’t was a foolish thought, and born only 
of our necessities. What plan have you ? ” 

“We will steal the white child to-night from 
Philip’s tent. At the end of the day’s march, 
all will sleep soundly, and while you wait I will 
creep in the wigwam and bear the child off in 
my arms.” 

The Indians were already journeying toward 
Mt. Hope, and Enoch was walking under a huge 
load of his master’s merchandise. When under 
the eye of the Indians, Awashamog would drive 
him along with the butt end of his gun, ranting 
and raving at him with constant threats to kill 
him ; then, as they walked apart from the com- 
pany, he would take the load and they would 
begin again to discuss their plans. 

But, though all others were deceived, Meta- 
cumsett suspected the truth. Never for one 
moment, as they journeyed onward, did he lose 
sight of Alse. 

At sunset the Indians chose a spot in which 
to encamp. The place was on the edge of a 


ON THE MARCH. 


153 


thick wood, and therefore favorable for Enoch’s 
purpose. But the minds of the Indians were 
occupied by their own sorry predicament, and 
they were careless of their captives. There was 
no feasting and exultation now. Many of them 
for days had tasted of no food save the bilberries 
they found by the way. Philip, however, had 
with him a small quantity of corn, one portion of 
which was carried by Wootonekanuske, and 
another by Metacumsett. 

Now then, the day’s march over, the wife of 
Philip and the two children sat in their wigwam 
and ate of the corn, and while they were eating 
Enoch came and stood at the door or entrance 
and asked Wootonekanuske for some of it. Woo- 
tonekanuske, being of a kind and generous na- 
ture, would have given it to him ; but Metacumsett 
sprang up and struck furiously at Enoch, who 
therefore ran away. 

Not knowing that he but feigned hunger 
to look within the tent, that he might make no 
mistake as to which was Philip’s, Alse began 


154 


WANOLASSET. 


to cry, thinking him in worse strait than her- 
self. 

Then in came Philip, and knowing nothing of 
what had passed, nor what was the occasion of 
Alse’s tears, he gave her a wounded robin he 
had just found; but when she began to fondle 
it, he took it from her and devoured it before her 
eyes. 

Alse had become familiar with the filthy usages 
of the Indians ; but she shuddered and left the 
wigwam, filled with a sudden horror of this 
savage life. 

“ Don’t cry for the bird ; ’t is best eaten,” said 
Metacumsett, who had followed her. “ Does not 
the little white captive know that the bird is 
never happy when ’t is taken from its nest } ” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


IN Philip’s tent. 

N ight had settled down over the wilder- 
ness, a friendly night, lighted only by 
a crescent moon. There was no rushing of the 
wind to make one restless, and after their long 
march the weary Indians slept heavily. 

It had been decided that Enoch should be the 
one to enter the wigwam and carry off Alse, for 
should Alse awaken and find herself in the arms 
of an Indian she might scream. Moreover, 
should Awashamog be discovered in this act, he 
would forfeit his life to Philip’s anger, while were 
it Enoch, if he were beaten furiously by Awasha- 
mog, the sachem might be pacified. 

Fortified by these arguments, Enoch stole 
through the camp to the wigwam where the 
wary old chieftain, the arch foe of the white men, 
lay asleep. It was filled with the prostrate fig- 


WANOLASSET. 


156 

ures of the dusky Indians, and in the midst, like 
a lamb among wolves, lay the dear sister they 
had stolen from him. Directly across the open- 
ing, but a foot’s space distant, lay the little son 
of Philip, as if even in his sleep he would still 
guard “ The-little-one-who-laughs.” 

Though the steadfastness of Enoch’s purpose 
did not waver, he stopped before this obstacle, 
for the risk of stepping over the boy in entering 
the wigwam and again in returning was too great 
After a moment’s reflection he took an acorn 
from a scrub oak near the wigwam, and threw 
it at the sleeping child. His heart beat wildly, 
for if Alse should cry out and awaken the Indians 
his whole plan would be overthrown ; but the child 
had a stout heart and healthy nerves. She uttered 
no cry, and in a moment got on her feet. She 
knew at once for what reason Enoch stood there, 
beckoning and pointing to the wilderness ; and 
realizing the peril of the moment, she yet had 
courage to send him a glance of reassurance. 
Slowly she threaded her way among the dark 


IN Philip’s tent. 


157 


figures, until she came to the little sleeping sen- 
tinel. For a moment she stood here hesitating, 
looking first with dismay at Metacumsett, and 
then as if for encouragement at the anxious face 
of Enoch ; then, tucking her skirts more carefully 
about her, she stepped lightly over the prostrate 
figure. It was well and bravely done ; but as 
Enoch would have hurried her away, she stooped 
over her little master and breathed rather than 
whispered a rueful farewell. 

Like the wind the two fled through the camp, 
on, faster and faster, until they gained the covert 
of the forest. 

“ That was a foolish deed,” said Enoch, as they 
slackened their pace. “Your kiss may have 
awakened the Indian child, and, if so, he will 
alarm the camp. We must make the more haste 
for it.” 

“No, dear brother, he did not waken. Not 
the least quiver of the eyelids did I see. He 
sleeps soundly after the weary day, and, of a truth, 
’tis a dear, kind boy, be he Indian or no. Much 


WANOLASSET. 


158 

have I to tell you of his friendliness for me, nor 
could I leave him without one thought of it.” 

“Hush, dearest!” cried Enoch. “Thy voice 
is shrill in the air. Speak low, or best not 
at all.” 

So they hurried on in silence, till they reached 
the spot for which Enoch aimed, which lay low 
by a stream on the other side of the forest. Here 
Awashamog waited with a raft. 

As they would have jumped upon it, out from 
the shadow of the forest behind them sprang a 
third figure. It was Metacumsett. 

“ Stop, stop ! ” he cried, “ I tell you, stop I ” 

With one bound Awashamog caught him by 
the throat, and would have despatched him on 
the spot had not Alse and Enoch rushed quickly 
forward to save him. 

“You shall not hurt Metacumsett, else will I 
stay in the wilderness,” cried Alse. 

“ Indians are all asleep,’' said the boy, pointing 
to the camp, and looking with anger at Awasha- 
mog, who he knew suspected him of coming to 


IN Philip’s tent. 


159 


hinder their flight, and of having the whole band 
behind him. “ I bring food for ‘ The-little-one- 
who-laughs.’ I will not have the bird die of 
hunger in its flight to its nest, though it forgets 
its master left grieving in the forest. Keep the 
corn and it will go there safely.” 

“ I will never forget you, dear Metacumsett,” 
said Alse ; “ but take back the corn, for you will 
be hungry as well as I. Take the corn, dear 
Metacumsett.’^ 

But with a proud gesture Metacumsett refused 
to take back his gift, and now, overmastered by 
impatience, Awashamog seized him, and, deaf to 
all entreaties, tied his ankles together in such 
wise that he could not move one foot beyond 
the other more than six inches’ space, for which 
reason many hours must pass before he could 
reach the camp. 

And so they left him, a proud silent figure upon 
the river-bank, his black eyes fixed drearily upon 
Alse until, with the white lad and the Indian, 
she was lost in the wide wilderness. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


FLIGHT. 

M any a grievous day’s march had Alse un- 
dergone with a load on her back, her face 
set away from the white man’s home, and each 
step costing a heart-ache ; but now, though the 
way was long, and she had barely rested from the 
previous day’s journey, her feet tripped tirelessly 
after her guides and she little needed for support 
the arm of Enoch that was so often around her. 

Danger, however, lurked in the forest on every 
side, and between their fear of the bands of Indians 
in hiding there, and the scouting parties sent out 
by the English, they went warily. In the event 
of being taken by the English, Awashamog could 
expect little mercy, for he was known to have 
joined the hostile Indians. Therefore, when he 
had travelled with them for three days, and 


FLIGHT. 


l6l 


Enoch felt sure they had not been pursued by 
Philip, he begged him to go back to Wachusett 
and join the Nipmucks, who were now the enemy 
of his enemy, — the fierce sachem of the Wampa- 
noags. When thus entreated, Awashamog an- 
swered proudly, — 

“No; I will prove my friendship in trouble 
even as the canoe is tried on the rough water. I 
will not leave you, for you shall see that the 
Indian can show gratitude and friendship.” 

Awashamog gave continual proof of his words. 
He took upon himself the most perilous part of 
every adventure. He denied himself in the few 
comforts they had, that a greater share would fall 
to Enoch and Alse. 

At first good fortune followed them. They 
met neither red nor white men, berries grew plen- 
tifully along the way, the air was warm and dry, 
and they slept well under calm skies. 

But one night a violent thunder-storm tore 
through the wilderness. The slight protection of 
bark they had made for themselves was carried 

II 


i 62 


WANOLASSET. 


away by the wind. Though they succeeded in 
sheltering Alse, Awashamog and Enoch were 
drenched to the skin. After the storm passed, 
the air had a deathly chill in it, and Enoch was 
taken with an ague. For two days they were 
forced to remain in that place, while Awashamog 
applied Indian remedies with Indian patience to 
the sick lad. 

On the third day, though still very weak, Enoch 
got upon his feet with the determination to push 
on. It was on the evening of that day that they 
came suddenly upon a party of savages who were 
sitting around a small fire. 

Enoch, being a few feet in advance of the 
others, first saw them, and, holding up his hand, 
he silently articulated the word “ Indians,” where- 
upon all three fell with one accord to the ground, 
where they were hidden by the bushes. 

The noise they had made betrayed them to the 
Indians, who at once jumped to their feet to learn 
the occasion of it. Fortunately, before they dis- 
covered the three travellers, a brood of partridges 


FLIGHT. 


163 


flew out of the bushes with a sudden whirr, and 
the Indians, believing them to have caused the 
sounds they had heard, went back satisfied to 
their work. After this, the trembling fugitives 
dared not risk the stirring of hand or foot. The 
necessity of keeping immovable for so long a time 
required all Alse’s self-control, and had not the 
Indians fallen into a quarrel, giving the little party 
an opportunity to slip away unnoticed, she doubt- 
less would have betrayed them into the enemies’ 
hands, and thereby endured a second captivity. 

Having escaped this danger, the journey was 
resumed. 

About this time the berries began to grow 
scarce. The corn which Metacumsett had given 
them was gone, and Awashamog had no longer 
any shot by which he could furnish game. Only 
one way remained, as it seemed, to save them 
from starvation. 

But to take advantage of the trust reposed in 
him by his dumb brothers to deliver them over to 
Awashamog for death, seemed the vilest treach- 


. 164 


WANOLASSET. 


ery to Enoch, and outraged the sense of kinship 
that he had felt ever since he had first stretched 
his baby hands toward dog or cat. Y et Awasha- 
mog looked expectantly at him whenever a rabbit 
scud over the ground or a bird flew overhead, and 
Alse would say, — 

“We are so hungry, brother. And what mat- 
ters whether the birds be shot from afar, or en- 
ticed by thee and then killed, since the end is the 
same ? ” 

Hunger has no mood for nice distinctions. 
All day the three went in silence, Enoch not dar- 
ing to look his comrades in the face and hoping 
that the next moment would, in some unknown 
way, provide food for them. At length, toward 
the setting of the sun, Alse suddenly flung her- 
self upon the ground. 

“ I can go no farther,” she said. “ What use 
to escape from the Indians if I must die of hunger 
in the wilderness Oh that I had stayed with 
Metacumsett, for never would I go hungry were 
he able to get food.” 






ENOCH SAT STILL WITH HIS EYES ON THE GROUND. 










FLIGHT. 165 

Then Enoch saw that the time had come when 
he could no longer delay the revolting deed. He 
left Alse and Awashamog and sat alone in the 
forest, and now, as always, the timid creatures of 
the woods drew near him. First a soft-voiced 
wood pigeon alighted on his arm, and with cooing 
notes and pretty sidewise movements of its inno- 
cent head, sought his favor ; and for the first 
time in his life Enoch drove a bird away. 

“Not the wood pigeon; no, I cannot kill so 
gentle and trusting a thing,” he groaned. 

Next a squirrel came leaping down a tree, and, 
stopping at his side, looked with his bright eyes 
confidently into the melancholy ones of Enoch. 
A grouse came from its nest, scattering the forest 
leaves in its haste to greet him, while many little 
forest-birds fluttered over his head and sent him 
twittering messages to the effect that if he but 
called them they would perch on his hand. 

Enoch sat still with his eyes on the ground 
shame-faced before them, and when after waiting 
a long time Awashamog and Alse came to look 


WANOLASSET. 


1 66 

for him and to see wherefore he did not bring 
them some creature of which they could make a 
meal, they found him still sitting there motionless. 

Then, because she was very weak and hungry, 
Alse began to cry, and as they walked away 
Enoch heard her say, — 

“ We shall starve, Awashamog. Enoch loves 
the creatures better than he loves us. He will 
let us starve.” 

Then Enoch began to walk about in great dis- 
tress, and in another place he came suddenly upon 
a raccoon which he killed with a stick before it 
had time to show its trust in him. 

But when, having been somewhat refreshed by 
eating the raccoon, Alse and Awashamog urged 
him also to eat, Enoch could not, for thinking 
of the look the little animal had given him as it 
turned upon its side and died. So he continued 
the journey weak from his past sickness, his long 
fast, and the struggle he had made against his 
own nature. 

Much need he had of strength, for now a great 


FLIGHT. 


167 


misfortune befell them. In coming down a steep 
hill where there were many stones, Alse tumbled, 
and sprained her ankle so badly that she could 
not so much as stand upon it ; so either they must 
stay in this place, or one of the two must carry 
her. 

After trial it was found that Enoch could not, 
and for days Alse travelled in Awashamog’s 
arms. On the third day after this mishap they 
reached Lancaster. 

Now, plainly the time had come when Awash- 
amog should leave them. But when Enoch 
begged him to return now while he might to the 
Nipmucks, Awashamog pointed to Alse, and 
silently shook his head ; and the next morning he 
lifted her again in his arms and doggedly plodded 
on. There was nothing for Enoch to do but 
follow, which he did with great anxiety for his 
friend. 

At length they neared Sudbury. Here Enoch 
knew that some of the English troops were 
encamped. 


WANOLASSET. 


1 68 

Each mile he contested with the Indian, and 
Alse also begged that he would set her on the 
ground, assuring him that she would reach the 
English in safety. But knowing that she could 
limp but a few steps at a time and that Enoch’s 
strength barely sufficed to carry him unburdened 
on his way, Awashamog risked a greater and 
greater distance into the enemy’s country. 
Though of a temper to requite injury with injury, 
he never forgot a kindness, and it was no more in 
his nature to desert Enoch now than it had been 
to accept with patience the insults of the English. 

Anxiously, with every faculty on the alert, 
Enoch pressed on ahead, ready to give the alarm 
at the approach of danger; but while they were 
passing through a forest of young oaks, suddenly 
a company of English soldiers sprang upon them, 
instantly surrounding Awashamog. Burdened 
by Alse, the Indian was instantly captured ; in 
truth, had his arms been free he could have made 
no adequate resistance. 

“ Unhand him ! ” cried Enoch. “ He is a friendly 


FLIGHT. 


169 


Indian who hath helped us to escape from Philip’s 
band. Let him go. See ye not that he is 
carrying the little maid ? ” 

“Truly, we see that,” answered one of the 
soldiers ; “ but how comes a friendly Indian here ? 
If he has a passport, let him show it.” 

“ He hath shown the English in our two selves 
good service. The little maid, who hath been 
in captivity, hath fallen and hurt herself, and 
but for him, who hath brought her here, she 
would have perished in the wilderness.” 

“ From what place does he come ? ” asked 
another soldier, who with a puzzled frown was 
staring at Awashamog. “ Nepanet and Peter 
Conway and four others were taken from Deer 
Island to serve as guides and also to negotiate 
with the Indians ; but I have heard of no others, 
and this fellow is not one of them, for I saw 
them all six in Marlborough.” 

“ Well, but he hath served us in like manner; 
therefore he should go free.” 

“ Not so fast, young man,” interrupted another 


WANOLASSET. 


170 

soldier. “We should rather take him before 
our captain, who can then make what disposition 
of him seems best” 

But Enoch was wise enough to know that 
Awashamog’s only chance was in the generous 
impulse of the soldiers, whose bitter prejudice 
against his race had happily been somewhat 
overcome by the sight of the white child whom 
he carried in his arms, and who was now cling- 
ing to him as to one whom she had learned to 
trust. 

“You have spoken well for your friend, if so 
you call him,” answered the foremost soldier, hav- 
ing listened for some time to Enoch’s arguments ; 
“ and such skill have you in * speaking that you 
have well-nigh persuaded me, for one, to let the 
fellow go. Yet plainly ’twere against our clear 
duty, which is not to decide questions of this 
sort. So now we will go to our captain, and 
perchance you can persuade him to give the 
savage his freedom, especially if he can show 
passport,” 


FLIGHT. 


I7I 

“ But what passport so good as the service he 
was in the very act of rendering to us when you 
took him prisoner ? ” cried Enoch, in despair. 

“Yea, that is so,” assented the second soldier, 
looking at Alse, who had placed herself in front 
of Awashamog, as if to defend him from these 
enemies and was looking at them with imploring 
eyes. 

“ Of a certainty now,” here broke in the sol- 
dier who had regarded Awashamog with so puz- 
zled an expression, “ I know the fellow, a rare 
rogue too. ’T was he I saw firing on the Eng- 
lish after the sacking of Lancaster. To the 
captain with him, or I myself will send a bullet 
through his heart.'' 

The soldiers, as if ashamed of their softer 
mood, now refused to listen further to Enoch, 
and presently they were all marching toward 
the camp. 

Awashamog walked between two men, while 
a third, he that had been most ready to release 
the Indian, carried Alse, who, as she had begun 


172 


WANOLASSET. 


the journey with tears for Metacumsett, now 
ended it with tears for Awashamog. Having 
carried her some distance in silence, the soldier 
said, — 

“ Why, now, my little maid, surely you are the 
first who ever saw the end of a captivity with 
tears.” 

“ They are not for myself,” Alse answered, 
“but for our good Indian friend, so rudely treated 
after the kindness he hath done us. Why, good 
sir, but for him, I would be a captive in the 
wilderness; and many a weary day has he trav- 
elled, as thou dost now, with the load of a great 
girl in his arms.” 

“ And no great load, either,” said the soldier, 
smiling. 

“Yes; but were you to go mile after mile after 
this fashion, perchance you would find me heavier. 
All I know is, that with Enoch, my brother, so 
feeble, and myself scarce able to take a step, 
never without his aid would I have found my- 
self among Christian people, nor look again, as 


FLIGHT. 


173 


I now hope to do, into the dear face of iny 
mother. Therefore, seeing the danger he is in, 
how can I help grieving ? ” 

“Well, pluck up thy spirits, child, for per- 
chance our captain will let the fellow go, though 
surely not if ’t is proved that he is with those 
heathen that sacked Lancaster ; nor wouldst 
thou wish it, since he would no doubt use his 
liberty to work more mischief to thy own race.” 

Hitherto Enoch and Alse had hardly given a 
thought to Awashamog’s future as far as it re- 
lated to the English, but now they perceived the 
truth of the soldier’s words, for were Awasha- 
mog free he would undoubtedly cast in his lot 
with his own race and share its crimes. 

On arriving at the camp, the Indian was im- 
mediately put under arrest. Between the hot 
feeling of the English and the obduracy of 
Awashamog, Enoch’s efforts on his behalf were 
useless. His sole hope was in an appeal to the 
Court in Boston ; but before he reached that place 
Awashamog was beyond help. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


IN THE WHITE PEOPLe’s COUNTRY. 

HE next morning Enoch and Alse found 



X themselves on their way to the Bay Col- 
ony in one of the wagons that had been sent with 
provisions to the branch of the army at Sudbury 
and was now returning. 

In the years that had passed since Winthrop 
and his company had first settled on Massachu- 
setts Bay, Boston had grown into a seemly town 
thick-set with buildings along its sea-line, and 
even venturing up its steep hillsides. The three 
most prominent hills were strongly fortified, and 
from the highest was a beacon which, being at a 
height of more than two hundred feet above the 
sea-level, could be seen at a great distance. 

One can imagine to eyes so long accustomed 
to the rough and lonely wilderness how fair must 


IN THE WHITE PEOPLE’S COUNTRY. 1 75 

have seemed the flourishing town, with its comely 
houses surrounded by gardens and orchards, its 
long streets, its shops and public buildings ; yet 
the familiar sights of the every-day life of civilized 
people were far more attractive to our travellers 
fresh from the squalid misery of the savages. A 
sweet-faced woman leading a child, a troop of 
fresh-cheeked boys hurrying from school, a girl 
giving a kitten a bowl of milk, — these, to the 
amusement of the carter, were the sights that 
pleased them most. 

Arriving at the town pump, they saw that a 
notice of some sort was affixed to it, and this 
turned out to be a proclamation appointing a day 
in that week to be set apart as one of solemn 
thanksgiving for the recent victories over the 
heathen. 

And now, having followed for a while the chief 
street in the town, the cart rumbled along a 
straggling lane that led to a pretty green com- 
mon, the same that was sometimes called the 
Training Field and again the Sentry Field. 


176 


WANOLASSET. 


And this common has been, first and last, the 
witness of many a stirring scene or awful tragedy. 
At this time, in one part thereof, the trainbands 
were practised in arms, while in another part 
young sweethearts strolled or sat by the great 
wishing-stone far up the hillside. Boys and girls 
played their games here on this common, and, 
alas, here too were criminals and wicked men 
put to their death, — and some of them not so 
wicked after all, as it appears to us. So the 
common is greatly checkered with the lights and 
shadows of human life, and bound up with the 
town’s history. 

Passing around Sentry or Beacon Hill, our 
travellers came into Tremont Row, where were 
clustered the homes of many famous men of the 
old colony. Here had lived Endicott, Belling- 
ham, and Vane, each at one time governor, and 
here also lived those stern old divines Cotton 
and Davenport, who had played as great a part 
as the magistrates in directing the affairs of the 
state. Among these distinguished personages 


IN THE WHITE PEOPLE’S COUNTRY. 1 77 

dwelt several of the rich merchants of the town ; 
and among them Mr. Benjamin Oliver, the uncle 
of Alse. 

The house was one of the few of that date 
built of brick. Of a simplicity far enough from 
the taste of our day, it yet had a stateliness that 
was impressive to eyes more accustomed to ele- 
gance than were those of our wanderers from the 
wilderness. A deep courtyard in front, divided 
in two terraces, was ornamented with shrubs and 
flowers, and one ascended two flights of steps to 
reach the broad doorway. 

Having been left by the carter at the gate, 
Enoch and Alse walked up to the door of the 
house, before which for a moment they paused 
to summon courage to lift the great brass knocker. 
But hardly had Enoch’s hand left it before the 
door was thrown open by an African slave, or 
Moor, as negroes were then called, and at once, 
before they could state their errand, the whole 
family came into the hall to welcome them. 

So it happened that, ragged, unkempt, browned, 

12 


178 


WANOLASSET. 


and coarsened by her life in the wilderness, did 
Alse Whitehill make her first visit to that town. 
As she stood there regarding her relatives and 
inwardly commenting on the nicety of their ap- 
parel, she thought of the flowered silk in which 
she had once dreamed of making such a fine 
figure ; but true indeed it is that no finery, how- 
ever brave, would make these two so interesting 
as the adventures they had passed through, and 
the suffering they had borne. 

For many years after Philip’s War, the favorite 
stories told by New England firesides were tales 
of captivity, and some who had been carried 
away by the Indians published an account of 
their sufferings, and these doleful narratives 
passed through many editions. And many and 
many a time would Alse have to repeat the tale 
her uncle now drew from her. 

But Enoch put by the praises that were sung 
to him for the bold part he played in it, with 
these words : — 

“ It irks me to lose time thus. I would fain 


IN THE WHITE PEOPLE’S COUNTRY. 1 79 

press on to Medfield, so that our poor mother 
may be comforted by the knowledge that her 
child is restored to her.” 

“Well then, lad, have patience,” said Uncle 
Benjamin, “for thy mother is not in Medfield, 
having been brought hither to my house in the 
hope that new scenes would cure her malady.” 

At this news Enoch and Alse sprang up, cry- 
ing in a breath : “ Then let us go quickly to 
her.” 

“ Nay, dear children,” said the aunt, catching 
Alse and drawing her with pity upon her knee ; 
“for thy mother lies very ill, and we know not 
whether or no she can bear such excitement.” 

“ ’T was the loss of Alse that caused her illness, 
surely the sight of her will cure it,” protested 
Enoch. 

But alas ! never was a creature so feeble as poor 
Mistress Marsden at that time. The surgeon 
would not venture to say that her strength sufficed 
to bear the slightest shock, albeit it was that of 
right good news, and touching the very calamity 


i8o 


WANOLASSET. 


that had impaired her reason. The question 
therefore being unanswerable by his science, he 
had left the responsibility to his patient’s friends. 

From the moment Alse was taken by the 
Indians, the poor mother brooded constantly over 
the calamity, her imagination wandering un- 
checked through all the horrors of a captivity 
among a barbarous enemy. Night brought no 
respite, for she could not sleep. What wonder, 
therefore, that her mind should give way! Her 
cry had been continually for Alse ; but for the 
last few days Enoch’s name had been ever on her 
lips, and it was finally decided that he should 
first be admitted to her chamber. 

It was an anxious time to that poor lady’s 
friends when he approached her bedside. 

Though not mistrustful that the result of his 
communication would be otherwise than favorable 
to her recovery, Enoch approached her with an 
emotion that made his heart beat with a violence 
such as no danger that he had encountered in the 
wilderness had caused, and the more so because 


IN THE WHITE PEOPLE’S COUNTRY. l8l 

of the low moan bearing his own name in an 
agony of entreaty, which was the only sound she 
made. Yet must he force himself to hide this 
emotion and to speak to her in a steady and 
cheerful voice. 

“ Nay, dear mother, thou hast no need to call 
me, for here I am at thy side,” he said, stooping 
down and taking her hand, while she looked at 
him with dull vacant eyes and murmured, — 

“ Enoch, my boy Enoch ! Hast thou seen 
him ” 

“ Yea, I have, dear mother, and ever he was 
upon thy errand, for he loves thee well.” 

“Talk not of that, but tell me of what success 
he hath in his enterprise ? ” 

“ Great success he hath, in good sooth. All 
goes well, mother.” 

“ Is it so, then ? Enoch has a wise head on his 
young shoulders. Is it truly so ? ” 

“ Yes, all goes well, — wondrous well,” contin- 
ued the lad, in a soothing voice. “ You have no 
further need to harrow your poor heart with 


i 82 


WANOLASSET. 



fears. Already he is bringing thy ewe lamb 
home to thee. All goes well.” 


This single sentence he repeated again and 
again, until doubtless it found its way to her poor 
wandering mind, for she answered, — 



IN THE WHITE PEOPLe’s COUNTRY. 183 

“ I am so weak, else would I get up and go 
forth to meet them. Yet all goes well. Did you 
not say so ? Surely, good lad, thou wilt not take 
back thy word ? ” 

“No, never. Thou canst rest in peace. And 
now, if thou wilt try to sleep, I will come again 
and tell thee how it fares with Enoch and thy 
dear Alse. Only close thy poor eyes and sleep.” 

“Yea, but how could the poor mother sleep 
with her child among the wicked savages ? ” began 
the poor soul, in a more troubled tone. “ And 
was it not cruel for them to come and bid her to 
sleep, unmindful of all her woe ? Was it not cruel, 
lad ” 

“Yes, but all goes well now, mother; thou canst 
sleep now.” 

“In good truth, I am weary,” said the mother; 
and, as she spoke, she closed her eyes and pres- 
ently slept. 

Greatly pleased was the surgeon at this sleep, 
and praised Enoch for his wise tact, and when she 
awakened he was allowed to see her a second time. 


184 


WANOLASSET. 


Now, to his great joy, she knew him, yet, cau- 
tioned by the surgeon, he ventured only so far as 
to say that Alse would soon come, and meantime 
she must lie quiet and rest, that she might be 
strong enough to welcome her. 

This waiting was a sorry trial to Alse ; but as all 
sought to comfort and make much of her, and as 
her mother was improving fast, she tried to be 
patient. It was on the third day of her stay in 
Boston that she was permitted to see her mother ; 
but of that meeting there was no witness save 
Enoch, who, having taken her to the bedside 
and seeing that no harm was likely to come 
of it, slipped out of the room, leaving the two 
together. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


A LETTER FROM RALPH WHITEHILL TO MISTRESS 
MARSDEN. 

My very loving and honored mother, — A 
good comrade of mine going from this place to the 
bay, I take occasion to send you, by him, news of my- 
self, and an account of our recent victory over the 
Indians, by which it doth truly appear that God no 
longer holds them as a scourge over us. 

About the time our dear Alse was brought in from 
the enemy, I engaged under Captain Church to hunt the 
savages in the vicinity of Mt. Hope. On my life, I 
have never seen the like of this man for bravery and 
mother-wit. He doth fight in the very manner of the 
Indians themselves, and by these means and cunning 
sleights he doth often contrive to outwit them. Our 
company, which, of a truth, is of a motley sort, is made 
up of thirty Englishmen and twenty confederate Indians, 
for Captain Church pursues a far different policy in the 
treatment of the Indians than any other officer under 
whom I have served, and by no means doth he hesitate 


i86 


WANOLASSET. 


to make use of the friendly sort; and as for the hostile 
Indians, when once they have surrendered to him, so 
wisely doth he treat them that they too fight well on our 
side. 

Well, mother dear, it fell out, after several sorties, that 
on the second of this lune, as doubtless the word has 
reached you in Boston ere this time, we surprised Philip 
about Bridgewater, and killed some one hpndred 
and thirty of his men, though Philip himself escaped. 
Among the captives were his wife and son. Sorry speci- 
mens of royalty they were, though I could but admire 
the spirit of the boy, so high and mighty he carried him- 
self in his fallen condition. It happened that I, with 
several others, was chosen to convey the prisoners to 
Plymouth, and on the way thither great sport was made 
of Philip’s son, and all did treat him harshly for his 
father’s sake. 

My thoughts turned continually to our poor Alse, 
who was once in like plight as himself, and who has now 
escaped from her enemies, as I think ’t is not in the des- 
tiny of this poor little Indian lad to do, and in my com- 
passion for him I urged the men to use a fairer conduct 
toward him. Greatly they laughed at my reason for 
sparing the child, saying that ’twas the more natural 
that I should take satisfaction for the sufferings of our 


RALPH WHITEHILL TO MRS. MARSDEN. 1 87 

captives, who truly have received scant mercy from 
their savage captors. 

But no, the deliverance of my dear sister did incline 
me to show mercy to this miserable little prince, toiling 
in the dust and heat to his fate, and enduring all in 
proud silence with courage worthy of an old brave. 
Therefore did I do all in my power to make his condi- 
tion more bearable to him, and well I know that Alse, 
who was ever kind and pitiful, will be glad that I took 
no revenge upon this harmless and innocent enemy. 
That same night we delivered the captives to the author- 
ities at Plymouth, and I trust they will not deal harshly 
with the boy. 

Now there was not a soldier, among all the companies 
in this region, who was not eager to pursue Philip. 
About ten days after the last engagement, a deserter 
from the Indians came to Captain Church with the word 
that he would lead him to the spot where Philip was 
hidden and help to kill him. 

Philip, with a small body of men, had taken refuge at 
Bristol Neck. His only way of escape was over the 
narrow isthmus, which was well guarded by our men. 
The Wampanoags being now nearly starved and greatly 
weakened by disease, one of Philip’s men did advise 
him to surrender, upon which the haughty rascal lifted 


WANOLASSET. 


1 88 

his tomahawk and struck him dead. Then, in revenge, 
this man’s brother stole away through the bushes, and, 
coming to Captain Church, offered to do as I have said. 
Then away we went in pursuit of Philip. 

’T was a hideous swamp, of a truth, mother, where- 
unto we tracked this beast, — a black swamp, where the 
roots of the trees lay twisted like snakes in the mud, and 
the air was heavy and damp ; and never did I see one so 
stiff with vengeful purpose as the Indian we followed 
thither. 

On reaching the swamp, the captain set us at certain 
distances to form an ambuscade, a white man and an 
Indian behind each covert. With me was the Indian 
whose brother Philip had killed ; and now, all being in 
readiness, we began to fire, when out of his shelter ran 
Philip, and in the direction where this Indian and myself 
lay concealed. Truly my heart beat hard, for here 
within fair range was that bloody savage that had 
brought such ruin and ruth upon us, the awful Philip 
that hath stirred his cruel race to war with us. Filled 
with great exultation that ’t was the Lord’s will that I, a 
stripling, should free the world from this wretch, I raised 
my gun and took aim. But just as I pulled the trigger, 
the Indian whose brother Philip had killed made a 
movement that caused me to miss fire. I saw that he 


RALPH WHITEHILL TO MRS. MARSDEN. 1 89 

had done it of set purpose, wishing to revenge his 
brother’s death. 

“ Fire ! ” said I. 

And he shot Philip through the heart. He fell with 
his face down in the mud, his gun under him. Thus 
dies a vile wretch. 

I doubt not, ere this reaches you, this news will be 
spread through all the country round about, but I have 
writ that which I have seen with my own eyes. 

Hoping that now thou art in right good health and 
that after this black storm of war is over, we shall re- 
unite in our dear home, I am 

Thy dutiful and loving son, 

Ralph Whitehill. 

The death of Philip, of which Ralph wrote so 
full an account in the letter, practically ended 
the war, although there was still trouble to 
the eastward. 

The colonies had suffered bitterly from the 
destruction of property and loss of life. Beside 
the fearful waste of lives among the husbandmen 
and bread-winners, hundreds of fair women and 
innocent children had fallen under the tomahawk, 


190 WANOL ASSET. 

SO that there was hardly a family that had not 
borne the brunt of war. The atrocities practised 
by the benighted savages had a barbarizing effect 
upon his enemy, and bred a merciless spirit that 
now showed itself in vindictive and ugly acts. 
The head of Philip was taken to Plymouth and 
stuck upon a pole on the village green. For 
twenty years it was left to bleach on the case- 
ment of the fort. Every week, usually upon a 
lecture-day, an execution of Indians took place 
upon Boston common. And now the question 
arose, what should be done with Philip’s wife and 
little son .f* 

The advice of the leading divines was asked, 
and in this case, as in all others, the Puritans sought 
for guidance in holy writ. That the children of 
Saul and Achan suffered for their father’s guilt 
seemed a reason to them why Philip’s innocent 
son should share the fierce sachem’s fate. The 
household of Benjamin Oliver was among those 
who begged that mercy should be shown to the 
harmless grandson of good old Massasoit ; but 


RALPH WHITEHILL TO MRS. MARSDEN. I9I 

it was a rude time, and the virtues of charity and 
forgiveness as applied to the Indians were not 
popular, and though the life of Metacumsett was 
spared, his fate was hardly less cruel. 

Among the petitions on his behalf that were 
sent to the Council was one that has not been 
preserved in any collection. It set forth at some 
length the services that this little lad had shown 
to two white captives, and was signed by the 
names of Enoch Marsden and Alse Whitehill. 
If the voices of such men as John Eliot, the 
Roxbury preacher and apostle to the Indians, and 
the brave and politic soldier Benjamin Church 
were disregarded, the entreaty of two obscure 
children would naturally have no effect upon the 
Council. As a matter of history, the guiltless son 
of Philip was sold into slavery in the Bermudas. 
One of the historians of that age passes over the 
matter with these words: “On this day the little 
son of Philip goeth to be sold.” 

The act was a great blot upon New England’s 
history, and we look back with wonder on these 


192 


WANOLASSET. 


hard men who could take such vengeance upon 
an innocent child. 

“To sell souls for money seemeth to me dan- 
gerous merchandise,” said the good Eliot, and 
all posterity mourns that his wise counsel was 
ignored. 

History tells us nothing of the boy’s future; 
whether his proud spirit was broken under the 
lash of the slave-driver, or whether, as seems 
more likely, the transportation from the cool 
breezes of his native clime to the tropical heat of 
the Bermudas resulted in ending a life that must 
have been bitterer than death, we do not know. 
With the words, “ On this day the little son of 
Philip goeth to be sold,” we must take our leave 
of him. 

Awashamog met his fate at the hands of the 
soldiers, in an endeavor to escape. He fought 
dearly for a life that perhaps he valued as little as 
any one, yet would not sell cheap to the despised 
white man. 

Greatly as the English suffered by the war, it 


RALPH WHITEHILL TO MRS. MARSDEN. 1 93 

was one of utter annihilation to the Indian. Ex- 
cept as an ally of the French, he caused no more 
disturbance in the colonies, and as a factor in 
New England politics disappeared altogether. 

Philip had fought a relentless and cruel war, 
but it was for his wife, his children, and his coun- 
try. If patriotism is a virtue in the white man, it 
cannot be evil in the red one. The revolting 
cruelties practised by the Indians are those of a 
race exterminated before it has time to evolve 
into a civilized people, and the indifference to 
their provocations, injuries, and final punish- 
ment which we find in the old historians has no 
justification. 


CHAPTER XX. 


CONCLUSION. 

D irectly after the war was over, the 
chief persons of our narrative left Boston 
for their own home. 

The farm had been much neglected, and Mas- 
ter Marsden wished his sons’ help in the harvest 
work. 

Ralph had had enough of fighting Indians, and 
was ready to turn his courage and resolution to 
the tasks of the husbandman. With Enoch it 
was far otherwise, for his old desire to uplift the 
ill-starred children of the wilderness from the 
misery of their mental and moral degradation 
had been but strengthened by his experience 
among them. The duty seemed especially laid 
upon him by the fate that by his devotion and 
loyalty to his white friend had befallen Awasha- 
mog. In the exaltation of this purpose the 


CONCLUSION. 195 

narrower duties of the farmer seemed intolerable 
to him. Unfortunately this project was still re- 
garded with disfavor by Master Marsden. 

“ Now when the country is burdened with a 
war-debt of half a million caused by these bloody 
savages, is a poor time methinks to use money in 
their behalf,” he said. “ Already hast thou book 
learning enough for thy purpose without college 
training ; for if he can learn the lesson at all, thou 
canst teach an Indian to keep his hands off thy 
scalp, and that twice two makes four and not five, 
when ’tis a matter of his own profit, without the 
aid of Greek and Latin.” 

The wisdom of this remark, so apparent to us, 
was directly opposed to the accepted opinion of 
the colonists. For this reason, and because the 
talent of Enoch seemed to justify the expense of 
a college course, Mr. Oliver now came forward 
with an offer to pay half the college fees, if he 
were permitted to devote his life to the conver- 
sion and teaching of the Indians. 

Marsden did not at once accept his brother-in- 


196 


WANOLASSET. 


law’s offer. Before pledging himself to spend so 
much as he must in bearing even half the costs 
of Enoch’s education, he wished to think the mat- 
ter over; and his tone did not seem to promise 
well for his eventual consent. Here the matter 
would have dropped for that time, had not Alse, 
emboldened by her sympathy for Enoch, left her 
place with the children, and stood by her step- 
father’s side. 

“ And if it should be, father,” she said, “ that 
you send Enoch to college, I will do the little that 
I can to help, — for if my uncle Benjamin be will- 
ing, I will give the flowered silk as an eke.” 

“ What does the child mean ? ” asked her uncle, 
with the chuckle in his voice and the merry smile 
lurking about his face that made him so great a 
favorite with his sister’s children. 

“ Why, now, the flowered silk that long ago 
you sent me as a birthday gift, uncle. Right 
beautiful is it and very costly, so that ’t will count, 
I doubt not, for as much as many bushels of 
Indian corn.” 


CONCLUSION. 


197 


On the subscription list of Harvard College 
one finds strange merchandise which in those 
days was taken in lieu of Indian corn, the usual 
payment, so that Alse’s thought, odd as it now 
seems, was not unnatural, nor did any question 
its propriety. 

“ The abominable, gaudish silk ? Aye, I do re- 
member it well, and thy foolish satisfaction in it ; 
but it doth seem that thou art no vain hussy, 
child, after all,” said Master Marsden, well pleased, 
and recalling no doubt the bedizened figure of 
the little maid, whose pride in her new finery had 
seemed so intolerable to him. 

“ And wouldst thou give away my gift, Alse 
Whitehill ? Fie on thee, thou unmannerly girl ! ” 
cried Uncle Benjamin, pulling her upon his knee 
and stroking her pretty head with a gentleness 
that proved his anger to be but feigned. “We 
are not yet put to such straits that thou must part 
with thy braveries to furnish means for our 
undertakings. Nay, nay, thou must keep my 
gift, for, on my word, when thou art a little older 


198 


WANOLASSET. 


thou canst carry off a bit of finery like the silk as 
well as another.” 

“ Nay, but let me tell you what has long been 
on my mind,” said Alse, eagerly, “ Truly, uncle, 
the flowered silk did tempt me wofully to vanity. 
Notwithstanding the awful troubles that fell upon 
our people, I thought of naught else but that 
foolish finery, so that in secret I did carry always 
a piece of it the better to keep it in mind, though 
the news of the Indians was worse and worse each 
day, and all beside myself seemed sober enough. 
At last came the time when the savages were 
seen round our own town. I myself could see 
them on Mt. Nebo and Noon Hill, which are 
but as a stone’s-throw, as one may say, from our 
very door. And that same day did Master Wil- 
son preach about my wicked vanity and the 
great troubles that had befallen because of it, 
stirring me mightily to repentance.” 

“Of thy vanity? Nay, not thine, child,” said 
Marsden. 

“ Why, so I thought, for whose else could have 


CONCLUSION. 


199 


been so great ? ” answered Alse. It doth seem 
as if he must have had me in his mind ; but, how- 
ever that might be, being greatly affrighted, I 
meant to throw away the strip o’ silk and forget 
it altogether. But of a sudden, before I could 
do aught with it, the Indians fell upon our town 
and carried me away with them into the wilder- 
ness, and I half believed "t was all because of 
the use I made of the flowered silk. 

“ That night, as I lay on the ground with the 
horrid savages all about me, and thinking that 
any moment one might come and cruelly put me 
to death, I suddenly thought of the day my 
mother brought me my uncle’s gift, and how 
ever since I had been filled with foolishness, 
rebelling mightily because ’t was put away out 
of sight. So then, I resolved, if I were eer de- 
livered out of the hands of the savages, that I 
would put it to some better use ; but, as thee 
knows, for a pretty while was I forced to stay 
with them. Now, because my little master was 
kind and they did try to make me as one of 


200 


WANOLASSET. 


themselves, I felt not so bitterly toward them as 
before, but pitied their sad state, for they fear not 
God and are very wicked. And so, uncle, be 
you willing, I would gladly give the flowered silk 
to make them better.” 

Having thus set her case forth, Alse awaited 
her answer ; but for a moment’s space none could 
speak, for thinking of the long captivity she had 
borne, and the reason there was for true thank- 
fulness that she stood there unharmed before 
them. Her mother looked at her with tears, and 
Enoch with the bright face of one who is in- 
spirited by a fine action. At length her uncle 
said, — 

“ Thou shalt do what pleases thee best with 
my gift, dear little maid, for all me. It rests 
solely with thy father whether thou canst make 
this sacrifice for thy soul’s good ; ” and for a 
moment a suspicion of a twinkle showed in his 
pleasant brown eyes. 

Marsden looked first up and then down, with 
a side glance at Alse. Then he drew a long 






ALSE 


CONCLUSION. 


201 


breath as of one who will struggle no more and 
said, — 

“Verily, I will not be a stumbling-block to the 
child. She shall do with the silk according as 
her own heart prompts, and right glad am I that 
’t is full of pity rather than bitterness.” 

And this being his way of saying that he would 
give consent to Enoch’s wish, preparations were 
now made for him to go to the college ; and as 
soon as he was settled there, the family of Master 
Marsden returned to Medfield. 

It was a hazy autumn day when the homeward 
journey was made ; and as toward the evening 
they came into the lovely town, it lay in the arms 
of its blue river in an Arcadian peacefulness such 
as discredited the tumult and tragedy of which it 
had been the scene. 

As Alse stepped under the lilacs that grew by 
the gate of their own home, Drusilla, the dove, 
flew down from her perch, and settled in her ac- 
customed place upon the little girl’s breast. 

“ Look ! ’t is an omen of peace,” cried Mistress 


202 


WANOLASSET. 


Marsden, smiling at this emblem of purity and 
innocence on the child’s bosom. 

“Yes, dear Drusilla, thou wilt come to me 
now,” cried Alse, “though thou wouldst not lie 
upon my breast whilst I cherished deceit and 
vanity there. But how comes it that the dove 
remaining here after the fowls have been taken 
away should be so fat and sleek ? Surely she has 
foraged well for herself in our absence.” 

“Not she,” laughed Susannah, who had come 
with others to give a welcome to her old play- 
fellow. “No creature in all our settlement hath 
fed so well as she, for all this sad time of thy 
captivity I and thy playfellows, for love of thee, 
have fed Drusilla. ’T is a great thing, dear Alse, 
to be beloved as thou art.” 

After the war the Christian Indians were al- 
lowed to return to their own towns. Some of them 
whose homes had been destroyed were settled in 
Medfield. We know that the civilization of the 
Indian was never accomplished. The transition 


CONCLUSION. 


203 


from the wild free life of the forest to the meas- 
ured life of the white man was too abrupt, and 
those who did not dash themselves to pieces in 
vain resistance to his power gradually succumbed 
to the conditions of civilized life for which they 
were not prepared. Of the poor remnant of the 
Massachusetts tribes that survived King Philip’s 
War, the lot of these Medfield Indians was the 
happiest. To the work of their uplifting Enoch 
devoted himself with all the fervor of his nature, 
and, like a gold thread through the dull texture of 
their lives, was woven the friendship of Wano- 
lasset, The-little-one-who-laughs. 





JHtSS S. ffi. pigmpton’s Storg ISooIts 


DEAR DAUGHTER DOROTHY. 

Illustrated by the author. Square i2mo . . . |i.oo 

DOROTHY AND ANTON. 

A Sequel to “ Dear Daughter Dorothy.” Illus- 
trated by the author. Square 1 2mo .... i.oo 

BETTY, A BUTTERFLY. 

Illustrated by the author. Square i2mo . . . i.oo 

THE LITTLE SISTER OF WILIFRED. 

A Story. Illustrated by the author. Square i2mo, i.oo 

ROBIN’S RECRUIT. 

Illustrated by the author. Square i2mo . . . . i.oo 

PENELOPE PRIG AND OTHER STORIES. 

Illustrated by the author. Square i2mo . . . i.oo 

RAGS AND VELVET GOWNS. 

Illustrated by the author. Square i2mo, cloth 
back, paper sides 50 

THE BLACK DOG AND OTHER STORIES. 

Illustrated by the author. i6mo, cloth . . . . 1.25 


Sold bj> all Booksellers. Mailed, postpaid, on receipt of price, 
by the Publishers, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS^ Boston, Mass. 


Messrs. Roberts Brother^ Publications. 


By the Author of Dear Daughter Dorothy. 


ROBIN’S Recruit. 

By a. G. PLYMPTON, 

AUTHOR OF “BETTY A BUTTERFLY,” AND "'THE LITTLE 
SISTER OF WILIFRED.” 


With illustrations by the author. Small 4to. Cloth, 
gilt. Price, ^i.oo. 

Sold by all Booksellers. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price, 
by the Publishers. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Publishers, 

BOSTON 



Roberts Brothers Juvenile Books, 


Dear Daughter Dorothy. 

BY M/SS A. G. PLYMPTON. 

With seven illustrations by the author. Small 4to. Cloth. 


PRICE, $1.00. 



DEAR DAUGHTER DOROTHY 


fhR child is fatner of the man,” — so Wordsworth sang ; and here is a jolly 
story of a little girl who was her father’s mother in a very real way. There were 
bard lines for him ; and she was fruitful of devices to help him along, even hav- 
ing an auction of the pretty things that had been given her from time to time, and 
realizing a neat little sum. Then her father was accused of peculation ; and she, 
sweetly ignorant of the ways of justice, went to the judge and labored with him, 
to no effect, though he was wondrous kind. Then in court she gave just the 
wrong evidence, because it showed how poor her father was, and so established a 
presumption of his great necessity and desperation. But the Deus ex machina 
— the wicked partner — arrived at the right moment, and owned up, and the good 
father was cleared, and little Daughter Dorothy was made gLd. But this meagre 
summary gives but a poor idea of the ins and outs of this charming story, and no 
idea of the happy way in which it is told. — Christian Register, 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston- 


Messrs, Roberts Brothers' Ptiblicanoiis. 



By the author of “Dear Daughter Dorothy.’* 

BETTY, A BUTTERFLY. 

By A. G. PLYMPTON. 

With, illustrations by the author. 
Square 12mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00. 


AM I NOT FINE.?” 


Sold by all Booksellers. Mailed by the Publishers on 
receipt of the price. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


4 




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